Hogwarts: Neville's Insert Chapter 93
Author's Note:
Hey guys!
Sorry for the long wait on this chapter. Honestly, I've rewritten it about five times—like I mentioned before, I just can't seem to get my thoughts to flow properly into words. I'm really sorry for the delay.
This chapter is around 3.4k words, and I'll be uploading a Naruto SI: Kaito – Red Lightning chapter tomorrow. I hope you guys understand, and I really hope I can get back to writing like I used to.
Hermione lowered the paper, fuming. "She makes me sound like—like I'm using you!"
Neville sighed and sat up, rubbing a hand through his messy hair. "Honestly, it's not that bad."
Hermione stared at him, incredulous. "Not that bad? She's clearly implying you're dangerous, I'm some over-ambitious schemer, and Harry's jealous!"
Neville gave a small shrug, calm but weary. "It could've been worse. At least she didn't outright say it. And besides, Luna's interview hasn't been published yet — once hers comes out, it'll balance things."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You really think people will forget this?"
Neville nodded. "Yeah. Once we're back at Hogwarts, the Prophet'll find something else to write about. Skeeter moves on the moment the buzz fades — they always do. And really, people have got better things to do than fixate on three teenagers."
…
Saturday, 8 August 1993 – Godric's Hollow Cemetery
The morning sky over Godric's Hollow was soft and grey, the kind that made everything feel quieter than usual. The faint mist drifted low across the old cemetery, curling around the headstones.
Harry knelt before his parents' grave, gently placing a small bouquet of lilies on the stone. His fingers lingered there for a moment, tracing the engraved names as he whispered something too low to hear. A few steps behind him, Hermione stood silently beside Augusta, both giving him space to grieve.
Further back, Neville stood near a weathered old headstone, its surface half-hidden by moss and creeping weeds. With a small wave of his hand, the grime and tangled plants melted away, leaving the stone clean and clear once more.
Neville tilted his head, muttering under his breath,"Ignotus Peverell." He frowned, rubbing his chin in thought.
'You know,' he mused inwardly, 'the whole "Death made the Hallows" thing never really made sense.'
He crouched down beside the grave, his brow furrowed. 'If Death really made them, why's Harry's cloak no different from a normal invisibility cloak? The only thing special about it is that it lasts longer. i mean Moody's magical eye could still see through it, couldn't it? So if Death actually made it, shouldn't it hide everything—sound, presence, even the trace of life itself?'
He rubbed his chin again, brow knitting. 'And then there's the Resurrection Stone. What a misleading name. It doesn't resurrect anything—it just summons ghosts of dead people.'
Neville rubbed his chin, frowning slightly. "Wait," he murmured to himself, "could the stone even bring back real ghosts?"
He thought it over, brow furrowed. 'When Harry used it, he saw his parents, Sirius, and Lupin… but all they did was tell him to go and die.'
Neville scratched the back of his head, puzzled. 'Why would his parents say that? It's almost like… they told him exactly what he wanted to hear.' His voice dropped to a thoughtful. 'Wouldn't they have been happy to see him again? Even the Priori Incantatem versions of them had more life to them—they actually shouted at him to run.'
He nodded slowly, piecing it together in his mind. 'Then the stone can't really talk to the dead. It just projects them—copies of what the user remembers, like the Mirror of Erised. That'd explain why they seemed so muted… so calm about him walking to his death.'
Neville glanced down at the wand in his hand. "Then there's the wand," he murmured.
He held it up beside the headstone, studying it thoughtfully. 'Mine's elder too… elder wood, thestral hair core.'
His thumb brushed along the polished surface. "Same as the so-called Deathstick," he muttered quietly. 'The most powerful wand ever made. But Grindelwald lost to Dumbledore while using it. Wasn't it supposed to amplify the strength of its master or something?'
He frowned, thinking it through. 'Unless the wand doesn't give you any boost when you're fighting someone strong—like it tests its master, forcing skill to decide the outcome. If that's the case, then it's basically a useless piece of junk.'
Neville let out a snort. 'Or maybe Dumbledore really was that much stronger than Grindelwald… but that doesn't make sense either. They were said to be equals. And from what I've read, Grindelwald gave up near the end of their duel. Why else would he let himself be locked up in Nurmengard?'
He fell silent for a long moment, staring down at Ignotus's name carved deep into the stone. Then, slowly, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
'Maybe the Hallows weren't Death's gifts after all,' he murmured. 'Maybe they were just brilliant creations — powerful, clever pieces of magic. And people turned that into legend because it's easier to worship something mysterious than to understand it.'
The sound of footsteps crunching over gravel pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up to see Harry walking toward him, with Hermione and Augusta following close behind.
"You guys done?" Neville asked, straightening slightly.
Harry nodded. "Yeah."
Hermione glanced curiously at the grave he stood beside. "Why are you over here, Neville?" Her eyes traced the inscription, and she read aloud, "Ignotus Peverell… 1292. Wow, that's really old."
Augusta frowned faintly, taking in the name on the headstone. "The Peverells again, Neville?" she said with a small shake of her head. "I told you before—they were an ancient family, long gone. If I recall, they had some sort of story about them, didn't they?"
Neville nodded. "Yes, Gran. Peverell. The same family from the tale of the Three Brothers."
Harry blinked. "The what?"
Augusta's eyes widened slightly. "You mean the story of the Three Brothers—from Beedle the Bard?"
Hermione looked puzzled. "Beedle the Bard?"
Neville nodded again. "Yeah. Ignotus Peverell was the youngest brother—the one who supposedly received the Cloak of Invisibility from Death."
Harry looked at Neville. "The Invisibility Cloak?"
Hermione frowned slightly. "From Death?" she asked, clearly skeptical.
Augusta gave a small laugh. "The Tale of the Three Brothers is an old children's story, dear."
Neville nodded. "Yeah. The story goes that three brothers — Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus — cheated Death. And so Death, impressed or perhaps amused, rewarded them each with a gift. Antioch was given the Elder Wand — said to be the most powerful wand in existence. Cadmus received the Resurrection Stone, a stone that could supposedly bring back the dead, and Ignotus was given a invisibility cloak that can hide from death."
He glanced down at the gravestone again. "I was just thinking… whether the items were ever real. Seeing as Ignotus's grave is right here." He gave a small shrug.
Harry looked curious. "You think they might be real?"
"Of course not, Harry," Hermione said quickly, crossing her arms as she looked between them. "From Death? It sounds symbolic — not literal. not actual objects. And besides, we don't even know if this is the Ignotus from the story, or just one of his descendants who shared the name."
Augusta nodded approvingly. "That's right. Old nonsense, if you ask me. Just another tale to teach children about greed and humility. Wizards do love their ghost stories. Death doesn't hand out trinkets."
Neville shrugged again, his tone mild. "Hey, i Didn't say I believed it. Just thought it was interesting, that's all."
Augusta glanced toward the path. "Alright then, let's get going, you lot."
Neville looked at her. "Actually, Gran — do you think we could see the house while we're here?" He turned to Harry. "If that's alright with you."
Harry nodded hesitantly. He had been meaning to ask, but it hadn't felt right — Augusta had already gone out of her way to bring him here.
Augusta gave a curt nod. "I suppose so."
Augusta led them out the cemetery, remarking that the Potters' home wasn't far. The group made their way through the quiet village — cobblestones damp with morning mist, ivy-covered cottages on either side,
As they made their way through the village, a few locals glanced up at them with mild curiosity. Most were Muggles, pausing only for a moment before going about their day.
When they reached the small town square, a modest stone obelisk stood at its centre. As the group drew nearer, the monument shimmered faintly — the rough stone rippling like water before transforming into a statue.
It was the Potter family. James and Lily stood side by side, Lily cradling baby Harry in her arms, both of them smiling down at their son.
Augusta blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Ah… I'd forgotten they built this here," she said softly, her usual firmness easing into something gentler.
Neville stepped back slightly, taking in the statue. He noticed how the passing villagers didn't seem to react at all — as if they couldn't see it.
Hermione tilted her head, her voice quiet with awe. "It must be charmed… so only visible to wizards."
Harry stood before the statue, his eyes tracing the familiar faces carved into stone. "They look happy," he murmured. they stood there briefly before they continue on.
They reached the old cottage at the end of a narrow lane. The upper floor was blasted open, the roof blackened and split.
A small wooden gate led to a garden gone wild with overgrown grass and wildflowers. As they drew near, glowing letters shimmered into view across a signboard:
On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,
Lily and James Potter lost their lives.
Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse
The gate itself was covered in faintly humming charms and glowing notes of remembrance left by passing witches and wizards.
Neville studied the house quietly. "Looks like they've kept it exactly as it was after the attack," he said under his breath.
Then, glancing toward the sign, he asked, "Gran, does the place still belong to Harry? Or has the Ministry claimed it as some sort of historical site?"
Augusta shook her head briskly. "Since Harry's still alive, they can't legally take it," she said.
Harry stared up at the ruined house, a hollow ache settling in his chest. He felt a sudden, powerful urge to step inside.
Augusta placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'll stay by the gate," she said softly. "Take your time, lad."
Harry nodded and started slowly up the path. Neville followed close behind, while Hermione lingered for a moment before hurrying after them.
Just as Harry reached for the door handle, a sharp voice rang out from behind them.
"Unless you fancy a chat with the Aurors about trespassing on a heritage site," the elderly voice called, "I'd step away from that door!"
They turned to see an old witch making her way toward them, shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.
Augusta straightened immediately, her hand hovering near her wand. "And who might you be?" she asked coolly.
The woman huffed. "Who am I? Who are you, loitering about the Potters' ruins like a pack of tourists?"
Hermione flushed, stepping forward quickly. "We're sorry, ma'am — we just wanted to have a look."
Neville offered a small, polite smile. "It's not exactly disrespectful if he technically owns the place, is it?"
The old witch blinked at that, then turned her eyes properly toward Harry. Recognition spread slowly across her face.
"Harry?" she breathed. "My word… how you've grown. The last time I saw you, you were just a baby."
She stepped closer, peering at him fondly. "You've your father's face," she said softly, "but your mother's eyes."
Harry stammered, "You… you knew my parents?"
Bathilda chuckled warmly, her eyes softening. "Knew them? I used to babysit you, dear boy. Lily and James were such a joy. Your father could never sit still for five minutes, and your mother—well, she'd just laugh and tell him to sit down before he broke something."
She paused, a faint wistfulness flickering across her face before she seemed to recall herself. "Oh, where are my manners? Bathilda Bagshot."
Augusta blinked in surprise. "Bathilda Bagshot?"
Hermione's mouth fell open. "Wait—the Bathilda Bagshot? You're the author of A History of Magic!"
Neville chuckled and lightly patted her on the head. "Calm down, Hermione. Don't go pelting her with a hundred questions straight away."
Hermione swatted his hand aside, cheeks flushing. "Oh, shove off, Neville."
Bathilda laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "My, my, what a lively bunch," she said with amusement. Then, turning back to Harry with a fond smile, she added, "Why don't you all come inside for a cup of tea?"
…
Bathilda's cottage was small but cosy, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and tea. Books and scrolls were stacked in uneven towers across every surface, while framed photographs moved quietly on the walls — some laughing, others waving or clinking glasses together at long-forgotten gatherings.
They gathered in the sitting room, where Augusta sat in a worn armchair, sipping tea with composed politeness.
Harry sat on the old sofa beside Bathilda, who was showing him a photo album spread open across her lap. In one picture, James and Lily laughed together at a picnic blanket while baby Harry crawled clumsily across the grass. In another, a one-year-old Harry beamed as his parents held him between them, all three radiant with joy.
Hermione, meanwhile, had found a book wedged between two dusty shelves and was already absorbed in it, eyes flicking rapidly across the pages.
Neville's attention, however, had drifted toward a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed two young men standing shoulder to shoulder, both bright-eyed and confident.
Neville leaned closer. "This picture… that's Dumbledore, isn't it?" he asked, glancing back at Bathilda. "And the other person's Grindelwald?"
Hermione immediately looked up from her book, curiosity sparking in her eyes.
Bathilda blinked, as though pulled out of a memory. "Ah — yes," she said softly, her voice turning wistful. "That was taken when they were young — very young. Before the world grew quite so complicated." Her eyes twinkled faintly. "I'm surprised you recognised them."
Neville shrugged lightly. "I recognised Dumbledore, but I guessed the other one. Read somewhere that Grindelwald had two different-coloured eyes."
Bathilda gave a small, approving smile. "You've a sharp eye, dear boy. Yes, he did. Albus and Gellert were… close friends once, when Albus lived here in Godric's Hollow. Brilliant minds, the both of them — far too clever for their own good, if you ask me."
Hermione leaned forward, her tone soft but eager. "So Professor Dumbledore used to live here?"
Bathilda nodded, looking faintly pleased at the memory. "Oh yes. Just down the lane — a lovely old house near the meadow. He and his family lived there for many years. His mother, Kendra, was a stern woman, but kind in her own way. Albus was always polite. Quiet, thoughtful. Always had his nose in a book."
She chuckled under her breath and turned back to Harry, who had been silently flipping through the photographs.
"And this one," she said fondly, pointing to a picture of Lily holding baby Harry high toward the camera, his tiny hands reaching for the lens, "that was your first birthday. James nearly dropped the cake that day."
Harry smiled faintly, his throat tightening. "I… don't remember any of this," he said softly.
Bathilda's expression warmed with sympathy. "Memories have a way of finding us again when we least expect them." She gently lifted the photo from the album. "Here, dear—let me make a copy for you."
With a flick of her wand, the photograph shimmered and split in two, each identical image waving cheerfully from within its frame. Bathilda handed one to Harry with a kind smile. "There. Something to keep."
Harry held the photograph carefully, as though it might shatter. "Thank you," he said quietly.
"You're very welcome, my boy," Bathilda replied, her eyes kind and distant all at once.
Hermione smiled gently from where she sat, while Neville leaned back, watching Harry tuck the photo safely away. Augusta set her teacup down with a soft clink and stood, smoothing her robes.
"Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Bagshot," she said with polite grace. "But it's getting late—we should be heading back soon."
Bathilda nodded, rising slowly to her feet. "Of course, dear. You're welcome anytime. And you too, Harry," she said softly. "Your parents would've been proud to see you visit."
Harry managed a small smile. "I'm glad I came."
As they made their way toward the door, Bathilda followed them out, waving until they disappeared down the lane.
…
The lift doors slid open with a soft chime, and the group stepped out onto the fourth floor of St Mungo's Hospital. The corridor was bustling with Healers in lime-green robes hurrying past, the air filled with murmured spells and the faint scent of antiseptic potions.
"Come along, you three," Augusta said briskly, leading the way down the hall. Her cane tapped smartly against the polished floor as she turned toward the familiar corridor marked Permanent Spell Damage Ward.
Hermione glanced around curiously, her eyes darting between the bustling rooms. She leaned closer to Neville and Harry, lowering her voice. "Why are we here?" she whispered.
Augusta, having overheard, glanced back over her shoulder. "Why, to visit Neville's parents, of course. Hasn't he told you?"
Hermione blinked, confused. "Neville's… parents?" She looked at him uncertainly.
Augusta frowned slightly. "You mean you didn't tell them?"
Neville rubbed the back of his neck, awkward but calm. "Er—didn't I? i told you before that my parents were… tortured. For hours, under the Cruciatus Curse."
Hermione's eyes widened, horror flashing across her face. "Oh, Neville…"
He nodded quietly. "Yeah. Their minds broke after that. They've been here ever since."
No one spoke for a moment. The only sound was the squeak of Healers' shoes on the floor as they passed. Then Augusta gave a small nod, straightening her shoulders. "Come on, then," she said firmly, waving her wand toward the door. "Alohomora."
The door swung open to reveal a calm, quiet ward lined with a few private rooms. A witch at the front desk looked up immediately and smiled.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Longbottom," she greeted warmly.
"Good afternoon, Miriam," Augusta replied with a polite nod before leading the others past the desk and down the corridor.
They stopped before the last door on the right. Inside, Frank Longbottom sat upright on his bed, staring blankly at the doorway. Alice sat by the window, her thin fingers clutching a sweet wrapper, turning it over and over in her hands.
"Good afternoon, dears," Augusta said gently as she entered. "Sorry we're a bit late — we stopped by Harry's parents' graves before coming." She took her usual seat beside Frank's bed, her tone softening as she spoke to him. "You'd have liked it there today — lovely weather."
Neville moved to sit beside his mother's bed, his expression tender. "Hey, Mum… Dad…" he said quietly. "I brought my friends along. You remember Harry, right?"
Harry smiled faintly and gave a polite nod. "Nice to see you again, sir. Ma'am." He took a seat on the small couch nearby.
Neville gestured toward Hermione. "And this is Hermione Granger. I've mentioned her before — she's the brains of the group."
Hermione smiled shyly, her voice gentle. "Hello, Mr and Mrs Longbottom." She sat down beside Neville, folding her hands in her lap.
Neville smiled softly. "Sorry we're late," he said. "Like Gran said, we went to visit Harry's parents — and we ran into Bathilda Bagshot, actually. Apparently she used to be their friend. She had a few photos of Harry's mum and dad she wanted to give him."
As usual, neither Alice nor Frank reacted. Frank stared absently at the wall, while Alice continued to turn the sweet wrapper in her hands. The silence that followed was soft, familiar.
Neville sighed quietly. "Right," he murmured, snapping his fingers, "I nearly forgot — I'd better call for her, or she'll throw a tantrum."
A rush of blue light flared beside him, and Lumina appeared in a swirl of shimmering feathers. The phoenix let out a low, soothing trill that seemed to fill the ward, her song warm and melancholic, wrapping through the air like sunlight through mist.
Even Alice stirred faintly. Her gaze drifted toward Neville, and she extended her hand, a sweet wrapper resting in her palm.
Neville smiled softly and took it with care. "Thanks, Mum," he said gently.
The phoenix settled on the bedpost, preening quietly as the ward fell into a peaceful hush.
After a moment, Neville reached into his bag and pulled out a folder bulging with parchment, sketches, and notes. "Right," he said, clearing his throat. "I've… made a bit of progress on what I've been working on."
Hermione leaned forward curiously. "What's that?"
Neville hesitated, then handed her a few sheets. They were covered in rough diagrams — outlines of a human brain, labelled sections, potion formulas in the margins, and rune arrays drawn alongside them.
"Oh, Neville…" Hermione breathed, scanning the pages. "You're working on a potion that targets a specific part of the brain?" Her eyes widened. "Is this what you've been doing at night?"
Neville rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks tinting pink. "Sort of. It's just theory for now. I think the Cruciatus doesn't destroy the mind — it shuts part of it down. The bit that controls memory and emotion. If I can find a way to wake it again…"
Harry moved closer, glancing at the parchment over Hermione's shoulder. "You mean… you're trying to fix that part?"
Neville nodded, his voice quiet but steady. "That's the idea. But I'm nowhere near close. I've just been studying the basics — Madam Pomfrey lent me some of her old healing texts. Most of this is still guesswork."
"Oh, Neville " Hermione looked down at the sketches again, her voice soft with awe. "this is more than guesswork. It's… incredible."
Neville gave a modest shrug, eyes flicking toward his parents. "I just want to try."
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