Severus walked in the past, a place he hated to visit.

He’d been a halfblood in Slytherin. Not a rare thing, though in the last century or two Slytherin had become the province of purebloods and bare of Muggleborns, but halfbloods sorted there learned swiftly that in their house they were second-class citizens. In the wider world it might not be so, but here it was all too true.

But Severus was a potions genius, his potential obvious even by his second year, and that made him useful without – and this was important – without making him a threat. To the traditionalist purebloods with delusions of grandeur, potion brewing was a necessity but not something a person indulged in unless they had to. Only the lower classes, the lesser beings, sullied their hands on it without good cause; certainly no proper person enjoyed potions. But for a halfblood it was perfectly acceptable, even laudable.

Some of the older Slytherins therefore gave him patronage and Severus survived on that. It wasn’t enough to protect him from Potter’s gang of bullies, of course, because Potter and Black were purebloods, regardless of affiliation, and the Slytherin purebloods gave them leeway because of that. Any major transgression was naturally revenged because it affected the reputation of Slytherin, but his housemates mainly turned a blind eye to anything done to Severus as long as it didn’t affect his value as a commodity. Since the teachers wouldn’t act against Potter because they didn’t believe Severus and his parents didn’t care enough to notice, he accepted that small measure of protection as the best he would get.

Then Lucius Malfoy, hoping to find favour by obtaining a potion maker, took him to Voldemort.

To the charismatic man who spoke with such eloquent, enthusiastic clarity about the decay of their world, about the potential for a new world order, about a need to tear down the old ways so they could build their society up again better and stronger than it had ever been. Just the words to appeal to youngsters ready to make their mark on the world but chafing at the restrictions and rules of their elders who still saw them as children. He offered to help them learn the knowledge that over-cautious adults said would be too dangerous for them to study. He told them the world was ruled by doddering old fools and it was up to the young, the courageous, to take control and make it all the way it should be. And they listened. Oh how they listened.

To a generation of youths Voldemort was a hero, the man who would lead them into a brighter world where they could right all the wrongs, real and imagined, they’d ever seen. They loved him, believed him, believed in him. There were whispers that he was the Heir of Slytherin – even that he was Salazar Slytherin reborn – and everyone believed it. He was great, he was wonderful, he was powerful. He was theirs.

Severus was no more immune than any of his fellows and he clung to the edge of the group of followers, knowing he could never be a serious part of the revolution, knowing that whatever Voldemort’s bright new world would involve it was unlikely to bring anything good for him, but desperate for at least a glimpse, even if he couldn’t touch it. Even if this world wasn’t for him, he wanted to know it would exist. That was the magic in Voldemort’s words; he made you want his dream, he made you dream his dream.

And then one day Voldemort himself came to Severus as he stood on the edges. Voldemort came to him and took him aside, walked with him, talked to him as an equal as if he was genuinely interested in what Severus had to say. Severus hated the thought of the look on Voldemort’s face when he realised just what he was talking to, but he couldn’t stand the thought of this man going on talking to someone like him and he couldn’t bear the waiting for the man to realise what he was.

“Lord, I have to... My Lord, I’m a halfblood!” he burst out, and waited for the blow to fall. He stood there, trembling, a gangly fifteen-year-old waiting for his god to dismiss him, unaware of the fear and longing on his face as he looked up at his leader.

Voldemort smiled. “I know, Severus.” His smile deepened at Severus’s shock. “Did you think I wouldn’t? Of course I know. I make it my business to know all about all those who would choose to follow me – especially those with so much potential.” His blue eyes smiled down at Severus, deep satisfaction in his face. “And yet you dared to tell me yourself. Such courage,” he purred. “I covet courage in my closest allies. They say it’s a Gryffindor trait. Who knows? All I know is I need those with courage, for only those with courage can change the world.” He looked at Severus, knowing what he was, and he smiled. Severus had been willing to die for him from the moment he first heard the man speak; now he would willingly immolate his soul.

After that Severus was no longer the tolerated halfblood on the edges of Voldemort’s councils, no longer despised by his pureblood ‘betters’. He was Voldemort’s favourite and no one could shift him from that position (and they tried, oh how they tried). But Severus didn’t care about the people who looked at him with envious eyes and he certainly didn’t care about the people who tried to curry his favour so he’d carry a good word to Voldemort, he only cared about Voldemort. Voldemort, who actually cared about him as no one else ever had, who was genuinely interested in his problems and his hopes, who gave him advice, who guided his steps into adulthood.

Until Voldemort was no longer the leader of his adolescent fantasies, but simply the only person who’d ever cared. The father figure his own father had refused to be, the friend his Hogwarts fellows had denied him for reasons of blood or house. Voldemort, who called him ‘little brother’ with warmth in his eyes and teased him and taught him and looked after him. No one had ever cared about Severus before, cared about him because he was Severus. Not because he was under his protection or because he was obliged to, but just because he liked Severus.

Severus was the only one who was told that Voldemort truly was Slytherin’s Heir. The only one told the truth of the man’s parentage – that, despite the purebloods flocking to his banner, his father was as Muggle as Severus’s (and as cruel). “See, Severus?” he’d said. “We are brothers. So alike.” How could Severus not love him as his brother with all the love of a heart that had never been allowed to love anyone before?

For two short years he was happier than he had ever been.

Those memories should have been wonderful, the memories of a person who finally cared about him. But they were poisoned, like every good thing in Severus’s life. Poisoned because of what was to follow.

Because he was kept close to Voldemort, protected by his brother’s care, Severus didn’t realise that Voldemort’s followers were changing. He didn’t realise the group meant to change the world for the better had turned into the public’s monsters, didn’t realise that their determination to save the world had turned into a rash of fear and death cast across the country. When he wasn’t at Voldemort’s home he was at Hogwarts and Hogwarts was isolated from the rest of wizarding society so even when he heard the rumours Severus could easily ignore them. His brother wouldn’t do that. His brother wasn’t like that.

Voldemort had never asked him to do any of what he called ‘field work’, Severus’s contribution to the cause had always been his beloved potions (only asked of him because he insisted on helping; Voldemort would happily have asked nothing of him), executed to the best of his remarkable ability because here was a way he could help change the world – here was a way he could help his brother. While the revolution crossed Britain, leaving a trail of pain and hate behind it, Severus thrived happily under the watchful eye of the only person who’d ever loved him.

But in the end even Severus had to see what was happening.

When he finally had to realise that his comrades were killers, that his brother was being named Dark Lord, Severus didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t a bully, he certainly couldn’t kill. Some victims gladly turn on other victims in their turn, perpetuating a cycle of pain, but Severus could only hate those who’d earned it, he couldn’t hurt strangers. He’d been the victim too long to be able to do anything but empathise. Hurt, he wouldn’t turn on others, for his hurt turned inward, not outward. Which meant he could never become one of the so-called ‘Death Eaters’ hiding behind their masks and their robes.

But where could he turn? Voldemort was the only person in his life who’d loved him, but his brother had gone down a path Severus couldn’t follow. There was the enemy, of course, but he’d spent nearly seven years at Hogwarts and he didn’t trust Dumbledore. And if he couldn’t trust the leader of the Light and his own beloved brother led the Dark, where was he to turn?

At that point, as he floundered alone in a morass of confusion, he was offered a way out. It was Voldemort who asked him to become a spy for both sides, who (having had his own experiences with the man) taught him to fool Dumbledore, and Severus took up a position as assistant professor at Hogwarts with relief. Spying was better than trying to figure out where he stood on the issue, because as a spy he stood on both sides. So both sides considered him their spy and both sides distrusted him – except for their leaders, both of whom trusted him completely.

But not even Severus knew where his allegiance truly lay.

-

Neville arrived on Platform 9¾ early, of course. Gran would never be late for anything. Even the train itself was just pulling in to the platform when they stepped through the wall. At least this way he’d get to choose a compartment for himself and wouldn’t have to try sitting with anyone. It would be awful to have to ask and get turned down.

Gran didn’t wait. She gave him last night’s advice lecture again, appropriately abbreviated, and said “I expect you’ll go very well at Hogwarts” in a tone almost friendly. Then she hesitated, looking down at him as if there was something important to tell him. But all she said was, “Goodbye, Neville. I shall see you at the end of term. Remember to give my regards to Professor McGonagall.”

“Yes, Gran. Goodbye.”

He swallowed hard, watching her sail majestically across the platform under her vulture hat and suddenly feeling very alone. Grabbing his trunk, made feather light by magic so commonplace Neville never even noticed it, he got on the train and reminded himself he was too old to cry.

Inside his chosen compartment he let Trevor out of his carry case, glad he had someone with him. The toad looked around with ponderous curiosity. “It’s going to be okay, Trevor,” Neville said, trying to reassure himself. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Trevor gulped at him and walked sideways a little, apparently curious at the feel of the seat under his feet. If he’d had a choice in his pet Neville would have liked a cat, something he could hold and pat, but he liked Trevor. Trevor never looked at him disapprovingly and he radiated a placid contentment that always made Neville feel better.

But he could also move unexpectedly quickly and while Neville was distracted looking out onto the platform, now getting crowded, Trevor disappeared. No amount of calling made him reappear and even though Neville looked in every single nook and cranny in the compartment he’d vanished completely.

Oh no.

Neville sat down heavily and looked uncertainly out the door at the kids rushing noisily through the corridor. He didn’t know how Trevor could have possibly gotten out but if he wasn’t in here then he was out there. And Neville had to go looking. Trevor was his responsibility and he couldn’t abandon him. He swallowed hard, feeling even shakier than when Gran had left him. Neville hadn’t had a lot to do with people outside of his family and he was nervous around strangers.

But worry for Trevor overcame his fear of going to ask all those strangers and he got up... just as a girl knocked on the door and put her head into the compartment. Neville stared at her in surprise; she was the girl he’d seen with Professor McGonagall in Diagon Alley. What did she want with him?

“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “Can I sit here? Would you mind?”

“S-sure,” he said, hating himself for stuttering. But he’d expected to be ignored by everyone so it was a shock to have someone smiling at him and wanting to sit with him.

“Thanks.” She dragged her trunk in. “I’m Hermione. What’s your name?”

“N-Neville.”

“Hi, Neville.” He helped her with her trunk, earning another bright smile. “What’s wrong? You look worried.”

“I can’t find Trevor!” he burst out like an idiot.

She didn’t seem to mind. “I’ll help you look, then. What does he look like?”

She did help, too, and she didn’t laugh at him for having a toad though even Neville knew they weren’t cool pets, and she seemed to like him. Neville had never been so grateful to anyone in his life.

They’d just found Trevor hiding in the next compartment and come back in triumph when a boy knocked on the door. The boy he’d seen with Hermione and Professor McGonagall, actually. Neville felt a surge of jealousy because Hermione smiled at the newcomer and said “Hello, Harry!”

But the boy grinned at Neville too and said, “Hi, I’m Harry. Do you mind if I sit with you?”

And suddenly Neville, who’d never had any friends, had two friends.

Hermione interrupted their chatter when the train started moving to dash to the window and wave vigorously to someone outside, but Neville didn’t have anyone to wave to and it didn’t seem like Harry did either since the other boy just shifted out of the way of Hermione’s eager hand and kept talking to Neville. When Hermione at last sat down again she looked a little teary and Neville shifted uncomfortably in his seat, shooting a nervous look at Harry and hoping he knew how to deal with a weeping girl. Neville had never had to and didn’t really want to have to start now.

“Hey, Hermione,” Harry said, “I don’t know if you got my last letter before you left, but thanks for those chapters, they really helped.”

Neville wasn’t sure if it had been meant to, but the change of subject cheered Hermione up immediately. “I did get your letter and you really don’t need to thank me any more than you already did.” There was laughter in her voice. “See I told you it was a good idea to buy so many books. I’m glad you found them useful.”

Seeing Neville’s confusion, Harry said, “She photocopied some bits from books so I could read them.”

Half an hour was then spent in trying to explain what ‘photocopy’ meant. At the end Neville wasn’t entirely sure he understood properly. It sounded an awful lot like Muggles had magic, but Muggles didn’t have magic. That was why they were Muggles. Then he thought to ask what Hermione had been photocopying.

“Chapters about me,” Harry said glumly. Hermione patted his shoulder sympathetically but Neville was confused again.

“Why would you be in a book?” he asked curiously.

That made Harry laugh. “That’s exactly what me and Hermione said to Professor McGonagall!”

Hermione took pity on him. “Harry didn’t know about him and Voldemort.”

Neville stared at her. Then he stared at Harry. Hermione leaned into her friend and brushed aside his fringe so Neville could see the scar he’d heard about a million times.

“You’re—you’re Harry Potter!” Harry winced and Neville hastily shut up. He knew all about people assuming they knew all about him. “I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to—It was just a shock, is all.”

“That’s okay,” Harry said with resignation. “I guess you had bedtime stories about me too.”

Not that anyone had ever told him bedtime stories, but close enough. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Gosh, I’m glad I didn’t know who you were when I first met you, I’d have been too nervous to talk to you! I thought you must be—”

“Six feet tall and able to slay dragons with a single blow?”

Neville laughed. “Yeah.” He studied Harry. “But you’re just a kid. Just like me.”

“Yup.” Harry looked uncertain for a moment, nothing like a big brave hero. “So... we still...?”

“Yes!” As if he wouldn’t want to be friends with Harry! “But wait, I saw you at Diagon Alley with Professor McGonagall. Why’d you go on the Muggleborn orientation if you’re not Muggleborn?”

“Because I’m Muggle-raised. I didn’t know any more about this stuff than Hermione.” He smiled at her. “Actually, I still don’t.”

Hermione elbowed him. “Professor McGonagall was very helpful,” she said primly. An eager look jumped into her eyes. “Have you done any spells? That’s the problem with being Muggleborn, there’s no one around to ask questions of and it’s so hard to know if I’m doing things properly. I think they all worked how they were supposed to.”

“Gran wouldn’t let me try. She said I had to wait until my teachers showed me.” He looked at her enviously, wishing he had already done magic. Then he looked at Harry. “What about you?”

“I didn’t get to practise any magic.” His eyes danced away from Neville for a second. “My relatives didn’t want anyone to see me do it.”

“Harry.” Hermione’s voice held a mild scold.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay. My relatives hate magic. I didn’t even know there was magic until my Hogwarts letter came, let alone all this hero stuff.”

“You didn’t know who you are?” Neville had grown up knowing all about the Boy Who Lived and it was hard to believe the Boy Who Lived hadn’t known any of it.

“I knew who I was. I just didn’t know who everyone else thought I was.”

Neville winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Nah, it’s okay. I didn’t meant to snap.”

Hermione bounced on her seat. “Do you want to try now?” she asked excitedly.

They tried a colour charm spell, trying to turn Neville’s wooden pencil box red. It worked for Hermione and after a couple of tries Neville managed to get the box pink. Harry didn’t manage to get any colour at all but if it bothered him he didn’t show it. Instead he studied Neville’s wand. “Yours looks older than ours,” he said.

“It was my dad’s wand so Gran gave it to me.”

His new friends exchanged puzzled looks. “I don’t mean to be rude,” Harry said carefully, “but that doesn’t sound right.”

“Mr Ollivander said the wand chooses the wizard,” Hermione agreed, “that sometimes a wand can stay in his shop for ages before the right person comes along. Just because it worked for your dad doesn’t mean it’ll work right for you, because you’re not your dad. You’re you. And a wand’s important, so if you don’t have the right wand for you...” She glanced at Harry.

“Why don’t you try ours out?” Harry suggested. “Maybe one of them will work better for you?”

Neville winced a little. Using another person’s wand was like eating off another person’s plate – you only did it with family and close friends. But they were Muggle-raised, so they wouldn’t know that. And if Hermione was right (and Neville was already pretty sure she was always right) then maybe it wasn’t his fault his spell was so pathetic. It was that hope more than anything that made him agree.

Hermione’s wand didn’t like him at all. He could feel it the moment he touched it, without even needing to try the spell. He did anyway, but nothing happened. Harry’s wand, though, sent warmth shooting up his arm. Neville jumped and nearly dropped it. Harry smiled eagerly, leaning forward, and Neville smiled and cast the spell: the pencil box turned bright red. Hermione clapped her hands enthusiastically and Harry laughed. “Well done!” he said.

But no wand would work for Harry. Hermione frowned, looking irritated at her own inability to change things. Neville felt awful for Harry but Harry didn’t look like it bothered him. “Hey, Neville, you know about magic, what do you know about the houses at Hogwarts? Are they really so important as people seem to think?”

“Important?” Neville didn’t understand what he meant.

“Well, it just seemed like everyone cares what house you were in at school. Even when you’re old.”

“My parents didn’t like that idea,” Hermione agreed.

Neville shrugged. The houses were just the houses.

“It’s sort of like, at least as far as I can figure out,” Harry said, “Gryffindor’s supposed to be for the good guys, Slytherin is evil, and the other two are just there to be slaughtered in the battle between the other two. No one cares about the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, no one remembers them.”

“Great-Uncle Christopher said Hufflepuff’s for duffers,” Neville said glumly. He was sure he’d end up there and that would give Gran another thing to frown about. At least he wouldn’t be there to see it this time. He brightened slightly at the thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Gran, because he did, it was just... She needed his dad back. Not him.

Harry looked interested and exchanged a look with Hermione. “I think I want to be in Hufflepuff, then.”

“You do?” Neville said in surprise.

“Definitely. It sounds better than all that stuff about bravery and ambition. I don’t want people looking at me and thinking they know all about me because they know about my house. They already do that because of my scar.” He folded his arms, lifting his chin defiantly. “I don’t want people judging me.”

“Mum said the houses foster prejudice,” Hermione agreed thoughtfully. “I think you’re right, Harry. At least if people are going to be judging us they’ll be underestimating us. Let’s try for Hufflepuff.”

“Can we do that?” Neville asked.

“We?” Harry asked.

“Yes?” he said uncertainly. Would they mind him tagging along? But they grinned at him and Neville didn’t care what Gran would say, he wanted to be in Hufflepuff.

“Besides,” Harry said, “then when we do something great we can bring Hufflepuff back to light.”

Hermione stuck her hand out palm down. Laughing, Harry put his hand on top of hers. Neville was confused. “You put your hand on top and we make a pact,” Hermione said. “It’s a Muggle thing.”

Neville put his hand uncertainly on top.

“We three solemnly swear,” Hermione said, “that we’ll do our best to get into Hufflepuff because then people won’t be judging us according to our house but their own silliness and if we do anything great it’ll be because we’re us.”

“Amen,” Harry added mock-solemnly, and they laughed.

-

“Ah, they’ve arrived,” Albus said cheerfully, looking up at the ceiling of the Great Hall.

No one bothered asking how he knew; Albus liked sounding omnipotent but the castle talked to the Headmaster and the teachers all knew it. Minerva had been beguiling the tedium by transfiguring her nails into claws a sabretooth would have envied, making Filius next to her shift uneasily, and colouring them with stripes of purple and orange. At Albus’s announcement, though, she sighed and stood up, tapping her hand with her wand to undo the enchantments and heading off to wait for the first years.

Severus tapped his fingers impatiently on the teachers’ table and glowered across the empty house tables, refusing to join in the chatter of the other teachers as they waited for the students to arrive and thinking his own thoughts. He hadn’t told anyone Voldemort had returned. For now his brother was doing nothing and Severus didn’t want to admit his presence to anyone. Probably that was very wrong of him, but Severus didn’t care. He didn’t want to go back to spying. Besides, he didn’t want to tell Albus. Albus had never believed that Severus had never been an actual Death Eater.

The children piled noisily into the Hall for the welcoming feast and Severus scowled blackly, putting aside future problems in favour of current ones. Oh wonderful, a new school year. Then the first years came in and joy of joys Potter had turned up as ordered. Severus’s scowl deepened further as whispers sprang up around the house tables, pointing out a little boy with no distinguishing features. Potter had already picked up a pair of tagalongs, a bright-eyed girl with bushy hair and a round-faced boy who looked vaguely familiar, while the Malfoy scion (unmistakeable) was watching him with slightly scornful interest. Let the games begin.

The girl was the first of the Potter trio to be called up. She was a Ravenclaw if Severus ever saw one, but apparently the hat didn’t agree because after a long debate during which people started whispering curiously while her hands gripped desperately at the stool, the hat finally yelled “HUFFLEPUFF!” sounding unusually annoyed. For a moment there was surprised silence as people realised the wait was over before they remembered to clap. Minerva exchanged a perplexed look with Severus and called out the next name.

The other minion turned out to be the Longbottom boy. Severus winced a little at the open nervousness on the boy’s face as he stepped forward in response to his name; he knew where Longbottom’s parents were. His was another long sorting; probably he was arguing for Gryffindor if Severus knew anything about Augusta Longbottom. “HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat yelled, sounding definitely irritated now. To Severus’s surprise the boy beamed in delight, shooting a triumphant look at Potter as he snatched the hat off his head and handed it, grinning, to a startled Minerva before running to sit beside the non-Ravenclaw girl, whose name Severus hadn’t caught.

Severus was rather curious about Potter now, and considering the show his friends had put on it came as no surprise when his too was a lengthy sorting. Quite long enough to give the students time to whisper and stare as if the boy was an animal in the zoo while the teachers frowned for quite a different reason. Three lengthy sortings, all clearly involving determined arguments with the hat, was something almost unheard of in a single year. After all this time the sorting hat knew its job very well and rarely had to ponder a child for more than a couple of minutes. Ten minutes later, as the students got tired of staring and started grumbling, Potter sat up straighter.

“Fine!” the hat grumped finally, now completely exasperated and not caring who knew it. “But I hope you’re the last one. I’m supposed to do the sorting here! HUFFLEPUFF!”

Minerva’s half-hidden disappointment faded as Potter smiled at her and bowed slightly as he carefully handed the hat back; to Severus’s surprise she smiled faintly at him and gave him a nod.

Thankfully, the rest of the sorting went a lot more smoothly.

Having finished his meal (unlike the students he had had a satisfactory meal at midday and didn’t need to stuff his face now) but unable to leave until the feast was over, Severus glowered along the house tables, studying the students he already knew and marking the new ones. Several students winced when they caught his gaze, but he passed Hufflepuff just as Potter looked up, meeting his eyes, and to his surprise the boy offered him a bright, friendly smile.

As Potter looked back to his friends Severus contemplated him. He’d been prepared to despise the boy, but in fact he didn’t. At the moment, he decided, prodding delicately at the tangled coil of emotions inside him, he was cautiously neutral. A Gryffindor Potter, the expected outcome, would have been James Potter reborn and Severus would naturally have loathed him. But he wasn’t a Gryffindor. The hero Potter, raised by adoring Muggles delighted to have a wizard in their midst, would have needed his arrogance squashing to prevent him becoming an identical copy of his father. But a hero didn’t do weeding and didn’t turn down Hogwarts. And there was something just not quite right about him, some clue Severus had seen to the truth of Harry Potter but that he hadn’t registered. He scowled at his empty plate and tried to ignore the nagging feeling he’d forgotten something important.

As soon as they’d dealt with their houses (which didn’t take too long, since trying to talk to full and tired children was a terrible idea and any real talking would be done in the morning), Severus and Minerva converged on Albus’s office. Not so much because they expected he’d give them explanations (Albus was notorious for giving the sort of explanation that sounded perfectly reasonable until you left his office, at which point you suddenly realised you’d been handed a handful of moonshine – pretty but insubstantial) but because that was where the sorting hat was and the sorting hat, if not Albus, might offer some sort of explanation.

“The hat has never made an uproar like that before,” Minerva said immediately on entering the office, Severus at her heels.

“Good evening to you too, Minerva,” Albus replied. The hat was on his desk and Albus was sitting back in his chair. He had been looking at it pensively but turned to Minerva and Severus as they came in.

She pressed her lips together a moment. “Good evening, Albus,” she said impatiently. “Well?”

“We were just discussing the matter.”

“And?” Severus prodded.

The hat was looking as sulky as a piece of fabric possibly could. “Why a Ravenclaw, a Gryffindor, and a Slytherin want to be in Hufflepuff is beyond me,” it grumbled.

“An interesting choice,” Albus said mildly.

So mildly, in fact, Severus wanted to hit him. Naturally, he restrained the urge. Wait, a Slytherin? “Which one is the Slytherin?” he demanded.

The hat turned to look at him, an impressive feat for something lacking in eyes. “Which do you think?” it retorted.

Potter. A Potter in Slytherin. It must be joking.

Minerva frowned. “Does that mean Neville – Longbottom – is the Gryffindor?”

“Could have done well there, too,” the hat said indignantly, “but no. These children all think they know best.”

“I’d better tell Augusta that,” she murmured to herself. Catching Severus’s look, she said, “To Augusta anything but Gryffindor would be a crime for that poor boy. If I tell her that the hat wanted to put him in Gryffindor but he chose Hufflepuff for the sake of his friends...” She considered her own words then nodded, “Yes, that would be best.”

“Best for whom?” Severus asked snidely.

Minerva just looked at him. “For Neville.”

He looked away. “Well, this is all very interesting but it doesn’t answer the most important question: Why are those three in Hufflepuff?”

“Because that’s where they were determined to go,” the hat said. It would have rolled its eyes if that were possible.

“And why,” Severus said, trying not to sound quite as impatient as he felt, “did they want to go into Hufflepuff?”

The hat sat smugly silent.

Whatever reasons the Potter trio had, it wasn’t going to tell.

Severus sighed. It was going to be one of those years, he could tell.