Hogwarts: Neville's Insert Chapter 54
Snape looked ready to snap again, but Dumbledore's quiet presence loomed behind him. His piercing blue eyes passed over each of them in turn, gentle yet intense. Harry and Hermione both looked down, as if avoiding the weight of it. Ron stood awkwardly still.
"Innocent until proven guilty, Severus," Dumbledore said firmly.
Snape's jaw tightened. He looked moments away from exploding.
Dumbledore continued. "Professor Sprout has recently procured Mandrakes. Once they have matured, we'll brew the potion needed to revive Miss Smith."
"I'll do it," Lockhart blurted out quickly. "I've done it dozens of times—Mandrake Restorative Draught is child's play. I could make it in my sleep—"
"Excuse me," said Snape icily, "but I believe I am the Potions Master at this school."
Neville crossed his arms. "Might I suggest," he said carefully, "we consider buying matured Mandrakes from an Apothecary. It'd be pretty daft to let a student stay petrified for months just because we're waiting for a plant to grow."
There was a long, awkward pause. Dumbledore gave him a measured look, then nodded slightly. "Your concern is noted, Mr Longbottom. We will see what can be done."
He glanced at the four students. "You may go," he said gently.
Neville, Hermione, Ron, and Harry didn't need telling twice.
…
Tuesday, November 4th, 1992 – Transfiguration Courtyard
Neville stifled a yawn as he walked beside Hermione through the crisp morning air. Behind them, Harry and Ron trailed along, chatting quietly as they made their way toward the Transfiguration classroom.
"I still can't believe people actually think you're the Heir of Slytherin," Hermione said, sounding more exasperated than anything.
Neville sniggered. "I kinda like it, actually," he said with a grin. "It's a nice feeling, you know? The fear's palpable. Did you see their faces yesterday? That second-year from Hufflepuff nearly dropped his cauldron—it was hilarious."
Hermione huffed and gave him a firm whack on the arm with her book. "Stop joking around! This is serious!"
Neville rubbed his arm, still grinning. "Oi—bit rough, that."
Harry smirked from behind them. "To be fair, Hermione, he does kind of fit the description. Pure-blood, powerful, mysterious. Everyone knows he took down a troll in first year… and after what he did to Malfoy on the platform this year?" He flashed a cheeky grin. "Honestly, if I didn't know him, I'd suspect him too."
Neville shot him a look over his shoulder. "Laugh it up, Potter. We'll see who's laughing when your robes vanish mid-duel."
Hermione groaned. "Honestly, Harry, you're not helping."
Neville shrugged. "They're just being kids, Hermione. Didn't the three of you think Snape was after the Philosopher's Stone last year? This is no different—they're scared and blaming the first person that fits the picture, even if it's only just barely."
"Yeah, don't remind me of that," Harry said with a groan. "Honestly, I'm just glad I'm not the centre of attention for once. Had more than enough of that last term." He glanced over at Neville. "Sorry, mate."
Neville smirked. "Don't hold your breath, mate. I've got a feeling you'll be the prime suspect for the Heir of Slytherin by January. Just wait."
Ron laughed behind them. "Yeah, that sounds about right."
A few days had passed since Halloween, but the castle was still buzzing. Speculation about the identity of the Heir of Slytherin was everywhere. Whispers filled the corridors, and every corner of Hogwarts had its own theory.
And more and more, those whispers were pointing at Neville.
Apparently, being unusually advanced for his age had backfired. Rumours were spreading fast—how Neville could perform wandless magic, how he'd humiliated both Lucius Malfoy and Draco at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and of course, the story that he'd killed a troll in his first year.
The Hogwarts rumour mill was in full force, working harder than ever.
The strangest consequence of it all? Students—especially younger ones—kept running away from Neville like he had the plague.
Just earlier that morning, while walking down the corridor toward the Transfiguration courtyard, a group of Ravenclaw first-years took one look at him, went wide-eyed, and bolted in the opposite direction.
Neville found the whole thing hilarious.
Hermione, on the other hand, absolutely did not.
As they reached the classroom, Neville moved to open the door, but before he could, it was yanked open from the other side. A small, blond Slytherin first-year ran straight into him and fell backward, landing with a thud and dropping the book she'd been carrying.
"Ow…" the girl groaned, rubbing her head.
From Neville's front shirt pocket, an angry chirp rang out.
Neville quickly looked down into his shirt pocket. Lumina was glaring up at him, her tiny eyes narrowed with clear annoyance. She let out another sharp chirp.
"Sorry, sorry," Neville muttered, gently stroking her bald little head. Fortunately, the pocket-sized cage he'd enchanted for her had done its job—protecting her from the impact. Lumina gave a final disgruntled huff before curling back into her nest and settling down to sleep once more.
"Oh—I'm sorry," Neville said, crouching down to pick up the book the Slytherin girl had dropped.
Hermione had already stepped forward and helped the girl to her feet. "Are you alright?" she asked kindly.
"Thank you," the girl mumbled, brushing off her robes.
Neville stood and handed the book back to her. "Here you go—you dropped this."
The girl reached for it but suddenly froze. Her eyes widened as she got a proper look at Neville. For a second, she just stared. Then, without a word, she turned and bolted down the corridor.
"Oi! Your book!" Neville called after her, still holding it in his hand.
But the girl didn't stop. She tore past Harry and Ron, racing full speed toward the end of the hall—where two older Slytherin girls stood. One was blonde, the other brunette. The blonde cupped her hands around her mouth.
"Astoria! You shouldn't be running!" she called out.
Daphne sighed, folding her arms. "That girl… she really shouldn't be running in the halls."
The brunette beside her chuckled. "Let her have her fun, Daph."
Ron turned to Neville, grinning. "Gotta say, mate—you've got quite the effect on the ladies."
Harry nodded with a grin of his own. "She ran off and left her book behind. You've really made an impression."
Hermione crossed her arms and gave Neville a deadpan look. "Still find this funny?"
Neville sighed and stepped toward the two Slytherin girls.
"Sorry to bother you both," he said politely. "You seem to know that first-year girl?"
Daphne looked over, and before she could answer, the brunette beside her nodded. "Yep—she's her sister," she said, pointing to Daphne.
Neville nodded. "Ah, that's good then. Mind giving this back to her?" he asked, handing over the book. "She left it behind in her hurry. Probably heard the rumours going around…"
Daphne took the book with a sigh. "Yeah, I'll give it to her. Sorry about her running off like that. Believing in such nonsense…"
Harry, still lingering nearby, tilted his head. "You don't think Neville's the Heir of Slytherin, then?"
Daphne snorted. "What? No. The idea of Longbottom being the Heir is ridiculous. He's literally best friends with a Muggle-born."
"Yeah," the brunette added with a smirk. "The two of them are almost inseparable."
Hermione flushed at that, cheeks turning pink.
The brunette smiled and offered her hand. "I'm Tracey Davis, by the way. And this is Daphne Greengrass."
Harry nodded, gesturing to the others. "Right—well, I'm Harry, this is Neville, Hermione, and Ron."
"We've met," Daphne said, cutting in smoothly.
Tracey looked surprised. "When?"
"Herbology," Daphne replied. "I had to pair up with them."
Neville glanced at the time. "We should get going. Class is about to start."
He moved ahead and opened the classroom door, standing aside to let everyone enter first before slipping in behind them.
Inside, Professor McGonagall was seated at her desk, quietly marking papers. She didn't look up as students began filling in, finding their usual spots.
Neville headed for his regular bench and dropped into the seat beside Hermione. Harry and Ron took their usual place at the table just behind them, settling in and pulling out their books.
Once the room was quiet and everyone was seated, Professor McGonagall stood and moved to the front of the classroom.
Clasping her hands, she spoke clearly. "May I have your attention, please."
The class immediately quieted.
"Today," she continued, "we will be learning a basic animal-to-object transformation. Specifically, how to transfigure a small bird into a water goblet."
McGonagall stood at the front of the class, wand in hand. She gestured to a small bird perched on a wooden stand beside her desk.
"Like so," she said clearly. "One, two, three—Vera Verto."
She tapped the bird three times with her wand. With the final tap, the bird shimmered and smoothly transformed into a delicate glass goblet. It stood glinting on the perch, perfectly formed.
Almost immediately, Neville raised his hand.
McGonagall looked up. "Yes, Mr Longbottom?"
Neville lowered his hand slightly. "Professor, what's the use of this spell? I mean—I doubt anyone actually wants to drink out of a bird. And… does the animal feel pain? Are they still conscious when they're transfigured?"
McGonagall gave a small nod, her tone calm. "Good question, Mr Longbottom. The goal of this lesson isn't to create drinkware from living creatures. It's to practise transfiguring living matter into inert material. The goblet is simply a visual standard we use."
She walked slowly across the front of the classroom as she continued.
"If the spell is performed properly, the animal does not experience pain, nor are they conscious while in their transfigured state. However, a partial or flawed transformation can cause discomfort, which is why control and precision are essential."
The class nodded in understanding. A few students exchanged thoughtful glances.
"Any further questions?" McGonagall asked.
No hands went up.
"Very well," she said briskly. "Let's begin. Who would like to try first?"
She walked slowly down the rows, then paused as her eyes landed on Scabbers lying on Ron's desk, completely unaware.
"Well then—how about you, Mr Weasley? Let's see it. One, two, three—Vera Verto."
Ron swallowed and lifted his wand. "Alright… here goes."
He tapped Scabbers three times. "Vera Verto!"
Scabbers let out a squeal as Ron tapped him with his wand. The rat shimmered—and with a spark of magic, transformed into something that looked vaguely like a goblet… if goblets came with fur, whiskers, and a twitching tail.
The goblet continued to squeal as it twitched slightly on the desk, as if in discomfort.
The entire classroom erupted into laughter.
Ron stared at the half-transfigured cup in horror, lifting it with wide eyes. "Bloody hell…"
Neville winced. 'Man, i feel for that guy. Being Ron's pet can't be easy…'
McGonagall let out a quiet sigh and stepped forward. "Finite Incantatem."
The goblet shimmered once more and reshaped itself into Scabbers, who let out one last indignant squeak before scurrying to the far corner of Ron's desk, clearly traumatised.
"A bit more practice, Mr Weasley," McGonagall said dryly as she turned away.
Hermione slowly raised her hand.
McGonagall glanced up. "Yes, Miss Granger?"
Hermione looked slightly apprehensive but spoke up. "Professor… I was wondering… could you tell us more about the Chamber of Secrets?"
Neville glanced sideways at Hermione, then looked toward McGonagall. He hadn't told her—or Harry—anything about the basilisk or the Chamber of Secrets. He hadn't seen the point, not yet. After all, no one actually knew anything concrete about the chamber, and Hermione had been digging through the library for days trying to find something. So far, she'd come up empty.
That must've been why she'd asked the professor now—because even the books had nothing.
McGonagall noticed that the entire class was paying rapt attention. She gave a quiet sigh before nodding. "Very well," she began. "You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago—the exact date remains uncertain—by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. The four school Houses bear their names: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin."
She began walking slowly across the front of the room, her voice clear and steady.
"They built this castle together, far from the eyes of Muggles. At the time, magic was feared by the common folk, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution."
She paused briefly before continuing.
"For some years, the founders worked in harmony, seeking out children with magical ability and bringing them here to be educated. But over time, a rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. He wished to be more selective—he believed magical education should be reserved for those from all-magical families. He distrusted Muggle-borns, considered them unworthy."
She stopped, letting her words hang in the air for a moment before she continued.
"Eventually, this disagreement turned into a serious falling out—one that ended with Slytherin leaving the school."
McGonagall's expression tightened slightly as she said, "The story goes that, before he left, Slytherin built a secret chamber somewhere within the castle. A hidden place unknown even to the other founders. According to legend, he sealed it so that none could open it… except his true heir. Only the heir of Slytherin would be able to unseal the chamber, unleash the horror within, and purge the school of those they deemed unworthy to study magic."
She looked around the classroom, meeting several students' wide-eyed gazes.
"Naturally, the school has been searched, many times, by the most learned witches and wizards. No such chamber has ever been found. Most consider it nothing more than a legend—a tale to frighten the gullible."
Hermione's hand shot up again.
McGonagall raised a brow. "Yes, Miss Granger?"
Hermione looked both curious and hesitant. "Professor… what exactly do you mean by the 'horror within' the Chamber?"
McGonagall sighed quietly and said, "That is believed to be some sort of monster—one which only the Heir of Slytherin can control."
Neville raised his hand again.
"Yes, Mr Longbottom?" McGonagall asked, a touch surprised.
Neville lowered his hand and said, "Professor… could the story have changed over time? I mean—you said it yourself, he feared Muggle-borns, not hated them."
That made a few heads turn.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, Mr Longbottom?"
Neville shrugged lightly. "You mentioned Hogwarts was founded during a time when witches and wizards were feared and persecuted by non-magical people. What if Salazar Slytherin didn't hate Muggle-borns, but just didn't trust them? Not out of cruelty, but caution."
McGonagall watched him closely, her expression unreadable.
Neville went on, "Maybe he thought Muggle-borns still had strong ties to the non-magical world. And if word of a magical school got out—if Muggles thought wizards were forming a secret society—it could look like we were building an army. That kind of panic… it could've led to them attacking the school."
He glanced around the room. "Maybe he didn't want to purge anyone. Maybe he built the Chamber to defend the castle, in case something like that ever happened."
Then he added, almost offhandedly, "I think idiots like Voldemort just twisted it to suit their own agenda. That pure-blood stuff? Most of it only started after he came onto the scene."
The room fell completely silent. Every student turned toward Neville, wide-eyed. A few flinched at the name.
That was truly what he thought about the whole pure-blood nonsense. It had never made sense to him—this idea that blood status somehow made one wizard better than another. Magic was magic, regardless of where you came from.
To Neville, it had always been clear: Voldemort didn't care about blood. He was a half-blood himself. He just used the ideology—twisted old fears and stories—to gain power, to build a following. To make people angry, divided, and easy to manipulate.
It was never about purity.
It was about control.
Even McGonagall visibly flinched, her lips tightening. But after a pause, she gave a thoughtful nod.
"You may be right, Mr Longbottom," she said slowly. "Stories change, especially over a thousand years. It is entirely possible the original purpose of the Chamber—and the creature within—has been lost or misrepresented."
She took a breath, straightened her robes, and glanced down at the parchment on her desk as if reminding herself where she'd left off.
"Well then… where were we?" She cleared her throat. "Ah yes. Right. Very well—we'll continue. Who would like to go next?" she asked, sweeping her gaze over the class once more.
If you wish to support this story, please join me at patreon.com/Tilct
please contribute some power stone'