Hogwarts: Neville's Insert Chapter 91
Author's Note:
Hey guys!
Sorry for the late upload—this chapter took me quite a while to finish, coming in at over 8.7k words. There wasn't much detailed information about the Order of Merlin to go off of, so I had to fill in and expand on a lot of it myself.
I hope you enjoy the chapter!
Harry followed close behind, smiling. "Good to see you, sir. And thanks again for inviting us."
Mr Granger chuckled, waving them in. "Oh, no need to thank me. You're just on time, actually. Hope you boys are hungry—Hermione's been in the kitchen helping Bonnie cook all morning."
Neville turned to Hermione with a teasing grin. "You cooked? Well, I'm sure it's good, then."
Hermione's cheeks turned crimson upon hearing Neville's praise.
At that moment, Mrs Granger appeared from the kitchen, balancing a tray bearing a beautifully roasted ham glazed with honey and herbs. She was wearing an apron dusted lightly with flour, her hair tied back neatly.
"There you are!" she said warmly, smiling at the boys. "Good to see you, Harry, Neville—come in, come in, sit down! Everything's ready."
The smell of roast ham, buttery potatoes, and fresh bread filled the air as she set the tray down on the dining table.
"Wow," Harry murmured, eyes widening. "That smells incredible."
"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Granger said, pleased. "Hermione helped with the sides—and didn't burn anything this time, which is a good sign."
"Mum!" Hermione exclaimed, face going crimson.
Neville chuckled, sliding into a seat at the table. "I'll take that as reassurance."
…
Friday, 6 August 1993 – Ministry of Magic, Atrium
Green fire flared to life inside the marble hearth as Neville stepped out from the Floo point into the bustling heart of the Ministry of Magic. He stumbled slightly before regaining his balance, he wore a grey three-piece suit. The crisp white shirt beneath had already begun to crease at the collar.
Someone brushed past him sharply.
"Don't just stand there, lad!"
"Right—sorry," Neville muttered, stepping quickly aside from the fireplace queue.
The place was laid out much like the Floo station in Diagon Alley: the right side marked Arrivals, the left reserved for Departures, with dozens of fireplaces flaring green as witches and wizards came and went. The noise of footsteps, voices, and the whoosh of flames echoed off the high, arched ceiling.
Brushing soot from the shoulder, Neville scanned the crowd and spotted Harry and Hermione a little further ahead among the throng. Hermione, dressed in a deep purple gown, had her hair perfectly tamed with Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and gathered in a loose knot; a few soft curls had escaped to frame her face and fall over one shoulder. Harry, looked entirely different from his usual attire, he wore a navy three-piece suit much like Neville's own—though he kept tugging at his tie as if it might strangle him at any moment.
Hermione waved when she caught sight of Neville. He smiled and made his way toward them, dodging a pair of elderly wizards arguing about portkeys.
"This place is busier than King's Cross Station," Harry said as Neville reached them, eyes wide at the sheer number of people streaming through the hall.
Before Neville could reply, Augusta Longbottom walked over from behind him, immaculate as ever in dark emerald robes and her trademark vulture-topped hat.
"There you lot are," she said briskly, eyes sweeping over them. "Come along—best not to linger. You'll block the Floo queue."
She ushered the three of them away from the fireplaces and into the vast open expanse of the Ministry Atrium.
They slowed at the sight. of the grand fountain dominating the center of the hall: a towering sculpture of a witch, a wizard, a centaur, a goblin, and a house-elf all arranged in a graceful circle, streams of water arching high into the air before splashing into the wide golden basin below. Candles floated lazily above, their reflections dancing across the marble floor.
It was the first time Neville, Hermione, or Harry had ever set foot inside the Ministry, and it showed in the way they all gazed about, taking everything in.
Hermione tilted her head, her eyes shining. "That must be the Fountain of Magical Brethren. It was created to symbolise harmony between all magical beings—wizardkind, centaurs, goblins, and elves."
"That fountain must've cost a fortune," Neville murmured.
Harry squinted. "Is it really made of gold?"
"It is," Augusta confirmed crisply. "The Ministry spares no expense when it comes to appearances." She gave the fountain a disapproving sniff. "A shame the same can't be said for their efficiency. Come along, the Hall of Magical Honours is on the second floor."
They hurried after her, weaving through the crowd toward the lifts at the far side of the Atrium. The polished brass doors slid open with a chime, and the four of them stepped inside. The lattice gate clanged shut and the lift moved back with a jerk.
Hermione glanced sideways, noticing Neville's foot tapping against the floor. She leaned in and asked quietly, "Nervous?"
Neville gave a short nod. "A bit. I just hope I don't end up tripping over my own feet and knocking into the Minister or something."
Harry chuckled, folding his arms. "Now I wish I'd brought a camera with me. but its ok it'll probably end up on the front page tomorrow."
They stepped out of the lift and into the second floor corridor leading to the Hall of Magical Honours.
A long red carpet stretched ahead, flanked by floating candles and gilt-framed portraits lining the walls on either side. Each frame bore the likeness of a witch or wizard who had once stood where Neville soon would, the plaques beneath them glinting with golden script.
It looked more like a museum than a Ministry corridor. Conversations and the click of polished shoes echoed faintly from the open double doors at the far end, where ushers waited to direct arriving guests into the ballroom.
Augusta paused only a few steps in, her sharp eyes lighting upon an old acquaintance across the way. "Go on and have a look," she said, already drifting toward them. "I'll join you in a moment."
Harry, Hermione, and Neville exchanged quick glances before turning their attention to the portraits. Most were animated, giving polite nods or faint smiles as the trio passed.
Neville slowed to a stop before one that caught his eye—a young man in Hogwarts robes, face calm but eyes steady and determined. The brass plate beneath read:
Alric Thorn Order of Merlin, First Class – Awarded Posthumously, 1891 For unparalleled courage and sacrifice in defence of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and the wizarding world during the Goblin Rebellion of 1890. Though the full measure of his deeds may never be known, his bravery ensured the safety of countless witches and wizards.
Neville tilted his head. "Hey—he's won the Order of Merlin."
Hermione nodded, reading the inscription with interest. "Well, that's to be expected. He did save half of wizarding Britain during the Goblin Rebellion. There's a chapter about him in Hogwarts: A History."
Harry grinned. "So you won't be the only Hogwarts student to have one, then."
Hermione smiled faintly. "No, but Neville will be the youngest."
Harry pointed to a frame on the opposite wall. "Well—look who else made the list. Lockhart. For his heroic deeds and countless accomplishments."
Hermione joined him, frowning at the plaque under the smiling blond wizard who kept winking down from the frame. "I can't believe they'd give such a prestigious award to a fraud like him. You'd think the Ministry would check his stories before handing him an Order of Merlin."
Harry shot her a dry look. "Weren't you the one who was defending him?"
Hermione flushed scarlet. "That was before I learned the truth. If I'd known from the start, I wouldn't have said a word."
Harry shrugged. "Think they'll take it away after his trial?"
Neville gave a small shake of his head. "Don't hold your breath."
Harry turned to him. "Why not?"
Neville folded his arms. "For one, he's been admitted to St Mungo's—Permanent Spell Damage ward. Apparently they can't convict him if he doesn't even remember what he did."
Hermione frowned, crossing her arms. "But—but that's so unfair! What about the others? The ones he stole the stories from—his victims?"
Neville sighed, glancing at Lockhart's portrait again, which was now flashing his perfect white teeth at them. "I don't know," he said with a shrug. "The Ministry probably doesn't either."
Hermione huffed, clearly dissatisfied, and turned away.
Neville followed her along the wall, scanning the plaques until another name caught his eye. "Well," he said dryly, "looks like everyone's favourite professor made the list too."
The three of them stopped before a portrait of Albus Dumbledore, Unlike the silver-bearded, robe-draped Headmaster they knew, this Dumbledore was decades younger. He wore a dark waistcoat and neatly pressed suit, his auburn hair trimmed short and tidy, his beard barely reaching his collar.
To Neville, he looked uncannily like the actor who'd played Dumbledore in those Fantastic Beasts films from his old world. he thought wryly. 'Guess the resemblance wasn't that far off after all.'
The brass plaque beneath gleamed proudly:
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore Order of Merlin, First Class – Awarded 1945 For extraordinary bravery and distinction in magic, in recognition of his defeat of the Dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald, thereby bringing an end to one of the darkest periods in modern wizarding history. Positions held: Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot; Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards. Renowned for his contributions to magical theory, alchemy, and the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood.
Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "Well, he did defeat Grindlewand," she said simply.
"I wonder what happened to his dressing sense" said Neville with quiet amusement. "he used to dress way better than whatever his wearing nowadays. "
Harry frowned. "Grindelwald, who's that?"
Hermione turned to him at once, her tone falling into her familiar lecture cadence. "Gellert Grindelwald was a Dark wizard before You-Know-Who rose to power. He was incredibly dangerous—one of the most powerful wizards ever, even more than Voldemort, according to most records."
Neville chuckled under his breath. "Yeah, well, unlike old Moldyshorts—who couldn't even take over Britain—Grindelwald actually was a big threat. Nearly conquered the whole world during the Second World War. He wanted to end the Statute of Secrecy and make wizards rule openly over non-magical people."
Harry frowned. "That sounds awful."
"It is," Neville agreed, "but at least he had a goal. Voldemort's whole spiel was just about pure-bloods, even though he wasn't pure-blood himself."
Hermione's elbow jabbed sharply into his ribs. "Neville!" she hissed, scandalised. "Don't call him that—especially not here!"
Neville winced, rubbing the spot with a small grimace. "What? I'm just saying."
Harry tilted his head toward the portrait again. "So Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald, and the war just… ended?"
Neville shook his head. "Well, kind of, but I think people give him too much credit. They talk like Dumbledore single-handedly saved the world, but from what I've read, he didn't actually do anything until the very end, when Grindelwald was already losing."
Hermione frowned. "What do you mean?"
Neville leaned in a little, lowering his voice. "I mean, the bloke who really made the difference was Newt Scamander. He's the one who stopped Grindelwald's plans from spiralling completely out of control, and he wasn't even a fighter. He just… kept doing what was right."
Harry looked confused. "Wait, Newt Scamander… I think I've read his name somewhere."
Hermione sighed, shaking her head in mild exasperation. "Honestly, Harry. He's the leading researcher in the field of magizoology. He's also the author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. He's even won an Order of Merlin."
She tilted her head curiously toward Neville. "But where did you read all that, Neville? Every book I've come across makes it sound like Dumbledore was the one who truly stopped Grindelwald. I've never read much about Newt Scamander's part in it."
Neville glanced off toward the crowd, pretending to look for someone. "Eh, I think I read it somewhere in the Longbottom family library—or maybe in the Room of Requirement," he said quickly. "Not sure, really."
Before Hermione could press him further, he pointed down the row of portraits. "Look—there he is. That's Newt Scamander." He moved away from Dumbledore's portrait, clearly keen to change the subject.
Hermione followed him over, curiosity immediately taking over. They stopped in front of a cheerful-looking wizard with reddish hair beginning to grey and a wide, honest smile. A niffler peeked out of the pocket of his coat, and a bowtruckle was standing on his shoulder.
Harry leaned forward to read the brass plaque below. "It says here—'Scamander was awarded the Order of Merlin, Second Class, in 1979 for his contributions to magizoology. He received the honour from the Ministry of Magic for his work on the Werewolf Register and the Ban on Experimental Breeding, which helped protect magical creatures.'"
Neville grinned. "I really wish we could meet him today. Look—" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shrunken book no bigger than a deck of cards. With a quiet tap of his wand, it expanded back to full size in his hands. "I even brought my copy of Fantastic Beasts with me. I was hoping to get him to sign it—might even frame it for my wall."
Hermione stared at him, scandalised. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? I would've brought my copy as well!"
Neville scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Eh… kinda slipped my mind. Plus, I'm not sure he'll even be here. From what I've heard, the guy barely shows up to anything—doesn't like crowds or attention much."
Harry chuckled. "Can't say I blame him."
Hermione sighed, shaking her head but smiling despite herself. "Still, imagine meeting him… the author of Fantastic Beasts! He must be absolutely fascinating."
They moved further along the row of portraits until Neville pointed out another familiar name. "Democles Belby—Order of Merlin, Second Class—for creating the Wolfsbane Potion." He frowned slightly. "Isn't there a Belby at Hogwarts?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes, Marcus Belby. He's in the year above us. This must be his father—or his uncle, maybe."
Harry, wandering a few steps ahead, suddenly called out, "Oi, isn't this the current Minister?"
They joined him in front of a large, pompous-looking portrait of Cornelius Fudge beaming beneath his trademark bowler hat. The inscription read:
Cornelius Oswald Fudge Order of Merlin, First Class – Awarded 1990 For distinguished service to the Ministry of Magic and outstanding dedication to the preservation of law, order, and harmony within the wizarding community. Recognised for his leadership and commitment to public safety in times of uncertainty. Minister for Magic, 1990–present
Neville raised an eyebrow. "Do you reckon he gave it to himself?"
Hermione gasped and smacked him lightly on the arm. "Shush! Don't say that so loudly. That's the current Minister of Magic—you'll get us into trouble."
Neville rubbed his shoulder, lowering his voice. "What? Isn't he part of the panel that gives them out anyway? Seems logical to ask. And look at the date—same year he became Minister."
Hermione huffed, still glancing around nervously. "Just—shut up, you dolt. It says right there he won it for outstanding dedication to the preservation of law and order and harmony."
Neville gave her a flat look. "Yeah, right. Just like Lockhart got his for heroic bravery. The description's so vague it might as well say 'for existing politely'. Everyone else's citation actually means something." He pointed at the plaque. "And he's the last person on the wall, too."
Before Hermione could respond, Harry called from a few steps ahead. "Hey, guys—look at this!"
Both Neville and Hermione turned their eyes to the portrait beside Fudge's.
Hermione read the plaque aloud:
Peter Pettigrew Order of Merlin, First Class – Awarded 1981 For bravery and self-sacrifice in the struggle against the Dark wizard Lord Voldemort. Honoured for giving his life while protecting his friends, and for his courage in the face of unspeakable evil.
Harry frowned slightly. "He died fighting a Voldemort."
"It seems like it," Hermione agreed, reading the inscription again.
Neville studied Pettigrew's portrait quietly. The painted man looked timid, nervous even, his watery eyes darting around the frame as though he'd rather be anywhere else. 'Strange,' Neville thought, 'why isn't there any news on Sirius yet?'
Harry broke the silence first. "Well, looks like the Minister was the last to have won it," he said, glancing toward the grand double doors ahead.
Neville shrugged. "Yeah, but I think they should've added two more."
Hermione blinked. "Who?"
Harry turned curiously toward him.
Neville nodded at Harry. "Why, my boy Harry, of course—and his mother. I'm not sure why they never got one. I mean, your mum's the reason You-Know-Who was defeated in the first place, and you practically deflected the Killing Curse. That's got to count for something."
Harry's expression softened, the corners of his mouth turning down. "I'm glad I didn't receive one. I've got enough fame as it is. And I didn't do anything—I was a baby. But… if what you said about my mum is true, then she deserves one." His voice dropped, quieter. "But I'd rather have her than a medal."
Neville shrugged. "Still a shame," he said quietly.
Just then, a familiar dreamy voice called out from behind them. "Hello."
The three of them turned to see Luna Lovegood standing a few steps away, her pale blonde hair loose around her shoulders, her radish-shaped earrings swinging lightly as she smiled at them.
"Luna!" Hermione said brightly. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here with Daddy," Luna replied serenely. "The Quibbler is covering the ceremony. The Order of Merlin doesn't happen very often, you know, so Daddy thought it would be nice to write about it."
She tilted her head slightly. "What about you lot? Why are you here?"
Harry grinned faintly. "Neville's receiving one."
Luna's eyes widened in delight. "Oh! Congratulations, Neville!" she said, clapping her hands together. "Is it for saving a small colony of mooncalves, or perhaps discovering that kelpies can sing underwater when they're lonely?"
Neville blinked, then chuckled. "Er—not quite."
Hermione stepped in, smiling. "No, Luna. Neville discovered a treatment for blood malediction."
"Ah," Luna said with an approving nod. "That'll do it. Blood malediction wiped out countless families over the years. You've probably saved lives, Neville. That's rather brilliant."
Neville rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks colouring. "Eh… thanks."
Luna's eyes brightened. "Oh! Can I interview you? It would be my first official article."
Neville blinked. "Eh… interview?"
Hermione nudged him with her elbow, grinning. "It's better than giving one to the other press. At least she won't misquote you."
Luna nodded enthusiastically. "I can be the one to interview you, if you want."
Neville sighed but smiled faintly. "All right, sure, Luna."
Luna beamed, her expression lighting up like a Lumos charm. "Wonderful! I'll go tell Daddy. We'll find you later."
With that, she glided off into the crowd, her wand tucked behind her ear, humming to herself.
Moments later, Augusta Longbottom returned, looking pleased after catching up with her old acquaintances. "There you are," she said briskly. "I see you've been keeping busy."
Before Neville could reply, a young wizard wearing deep red and black Ministry robes approached with a courteous bow. "Excuse me, ma'am. The ceremony is about to begin. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your table."
"Thank you," Augusta said, nodding.
The usher led them through the grand archway and into the Hall of Magical Honours. The space was vast and radiant, lit by hundreds of floating candles and golden chandeliers. At the far side of the hall, a small band played soft, calming music on a raised platform, their instruments gleaming under the light.
They passed rows of elegantly dressed guests seated at round tables—Ministry department heads, Wizengamot members, and their families. The air was filled with the murmur of polite conversation and the faint clinking of glasses.
As they made their way to the front, Neville spotted Madam Pomfrey sitting beside Professor McGonagall and several other distinguished witches.
Professor McGonagall noticed them at once and gave a dignified nod, lips curving in the faintest of smiles.
Neville, Hermione, and Harry each returned the gesture, Hermione's expression warm, Harry's slightly awkward, and Neville's polite but grateful.
As they continued walking, Neville's gaze swept the room, searching hopefully among the crowd. Maybe Newt Scamander's here, he thought. He has to be—he's an Order of Merlin winner. But no matter how hard he looked, he couldn't spot the magizoologist anywhere.
"Figures," he muttered under his breath. Probably off in the middle of a jungle somewhere.
Before he could dwell on it, Hermione leaned closer, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "Guys, don't look to your left."
Naturally, both Harry and Neville immediately did.
To their left sat Arthur and Molly Weasley, dressed in their best evening robes. Molly was chatting cheerfully with another guest—until her gaze swept the room, landed on Harry, and froze. Her eyes widened, and she broke into a delighted smile, lifting a hand to wave enthusiastically.
Harry's face fell. "Brilliant," he muttered, ducking slightly and shifting closer to Neville in a hopeless attempt to block her view.
Hermione groaned softly. "Harry! I told you not to look!" she hissed.
Neville kept his face straight, pretending not to see Molly's energetic waving. "Too late for that," he muttered under his breath. "She's definitely seen you. Just keep it cool and ignore her."
Harry grumbled. "If I'd known they were coming, I wouldn't have come."
Hermione shot him a glare. "Stop fidgeting. You look suspicious."
Neville bit back a laugh, glancing at them both as they passed another table.
This one drew his attention instantly—the Greengrass family.
Lord Cyrus Greengrass looked every bit the composed pure-blood patriarch, his expression polite but watchful. His wife, Ophelia, offered Augusta a courteous nod.
Augusta returned the gesture smoothly, as though they'd known each other for years. Neville mirrored her with a small bow, and Mr Greengrass inclined his head in kind.
"Lord Greengrass," Augusta greeted as they passed.
"Madam Longbottom," Cyrus replied evenly, a faint smile touching his lips.
Neville's eyes flickered to Daphne and Astoria, both seated beside their parents. Daphne gave him a small, polite nod, while Astoria smiled brightly, waving before her sister nudged her arm.
Neville couldn't help but grin back before quickly schooling his features into something more proper.
Finally, the usher stopped at the very front of the hall. "Your table, Madam Longbottom," he said with a courteous bow.
"Thank you," Augusta replied.
Neville, Hermione, and Harry took their seats, settling at the elegantly decorated table draped in deep golden silk. From where they sat, Neville could see the grand stage clearly—the podium, the Ministry crest gleaming on the banner behind it, and the golden lectern where the Minister would soon stand.
He took a quiet breath, straightened his tie, and tried not to think about the hundreds of eyes that would soon be watching him.
Shortly after everyone had settled into their seats, the lights in the grand hall dimmed—leaving only the stage bathed in warm, golden light. A hush fell over the crowd, the gentle hum of conversation fading into expectant silence.
From the side of the stage, a tall witch in elegant grey robes stepped forward. Her hair was neatly pinned, her posture precise, and her voice rang clear through the hall as it carried an amplification charm.
"Honoured witches and wizards, members of the Wizengamot, and distinguished guests," she began, her tone formal yet warm. "Welcome to this convocation of the Ministry of Magic."
"Tonight," she continued, "we gather beneath the sigil of Merlin himself to mark an act of discovery that reminds us that magic—when joined with compassion—remains our world's greatest healer. The Order of Merlin is the highest recognition our Ministry can bestow for service beyond the ordinary. It is granted rarely, and only when courage, intellect, and humanity combine to advance the welfare of wizardkind."
Her words echoed softly through the chamber, drawing murmurs of approval from several tables.
"By decree of the Minister for Magic and the Wizengamot," she said, straightening her parchment, "we now open the proceedings for the presentation of the Order of Merlin, Second Class."
Applause followed—polite, measured, and dignified.
"Please welcome the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge."
The crowd hushed once more as the heavy curtains parted. Cornelius Fudge waddled onto the stage, flanked by two Aurors. His plum-coloured robes strained slightly at the middle, and his bowler hat was tucked under one arm. His grin stretched wide enough to look painful, glinting under the enchanted lights as he waved to the audience with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"Thank you, Undersecretary Hopkirk," he said, puffing out his chest. "What an honour it is to preside over such a distinguished gathering this evening."
He paused dramatically, scanning the crowd as though ensuring everyone knew just how important he was. "This hall holds the portraits of many who have earned this prestigious distinction—witches and wizards whose courage, brilliance, and sacrifice shaped our history. It is a privilege to stand among them once again," he added, conveniently reminding everyone that he, too was a previous recipient.
He launched into what could only be described as a marathon of self-congratulation, praising the Ministry's legacy, the importance of service, and the "burden of leadership".
Hermione shifted in her chair, frowning. "He's been talking for five minutes and hasn't said anything yet," she whispered.
Harry leaned closer. "I think that's his special talent."
Neville bit the inside of his cheek, forcing down a laugh as Augusta gave them both a warning look.
Finally, Fudge cleared his throat and moved on.
"Today, we gather to celebrate a truly remarkable achievement," he said grandly. "A revolution in the field of magical healing—a discovery that may change the lives of countless witches and wizards. The curse known as Blood Malediction has plagued our world for centuries, tearing apart families, claiming the lives of the innocent, and confounding even our greatest healers."
He paused dramatically again, his voice swelling with rehearsed emotion.
"But now, through extraordinary insight and perseverance, a potential treatment has been discovered—by none other than a student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the audience.
Fudge beamed, clearly proud of his own delivery. "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, a student—and not merely any student, but one who has displayed both courage and intellect beyond his years. It is my great pleasure to recognise this achievement tonight."
At that, Felicity Hopkirk stepped forward once again, carrying a crimson velvet cushion. Resting upon it gleamed a golden medal bearing Merlin's crest—the second-class insignia, set in a polished silver ring.
"By decree of the Ministry of Magic," Fudge continued, "and with the full endorsement of the Wizengamot, I present to you the recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class—for the discovery of a treatment for blood malediction—Mr Neville Longbottom!"
Applause thundered through the hall. Hermione's hands were the loudest, Harry's grin the widest. Augusta's expression softened, her eyes glinting with unmistakable pride as she gave a firm nod.
Neville winced slightly at the overly grand introduction. 'Brilliant,' he thought, 'he's going to milk this for every ounce of attention.'
Neville sighed, stood up, and began the long walk to the stage amid thunderous applause. His shoes clicked against the polished marble floor as the lights followed him. he could feel hundreds of eyes on him—Wizengamot members, journalists, professors, Ministry officials—all watching him.
He swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders as he climbed the stairs to the stage.
Fudge beamed at him, puffing up like a proud toad. "Mr Longbottom!" he said, extending a hand.
Neville took it and gave it a firm shake, his own grip slightly clammy.
"Such a fine young man," Fudge said for the crowd's benefit, turning to face them with a broad grin. "A shining example of Hogwarts excellence!"
Felicity stepped forward, presenting the cushion. Fudge took the gleaming pin and carefully fastened it to Neville's left breast pocket. Then, with a flourish, he lifted the medal's ribbon and placed it over Neville's head, the metal cool against his collarbone.
Neville managed an awkward smile and murmured, "Thank you, Minister."
"Not at all, my boy, not at all," Fudge said jovially, holding out a framed Order of Merlin plaque for Neville to take. Together, they turned to face the camera wizards at the front of the hall, who began firing off flash charms in rapid succession.
"Hold still, hold still!" Fudge said cheerfully, clutching Neville's shoulder in a way that made escape impossible. "Let's get one more!"
"And here we have the cheque—yes, yes—twenty thousand Galleons, generously awarded by the Ministry for Mr Longbottom's contributions to wizarding medicine!"
The audience applauded again. Neville's ears burned as Fudge handed him the parchment envelope with a proud, sweeping gesture.
Fudge's grin widened as he stepped aside, gesturing grandly toward the podium. "And now, I believe our young honouree would like to share a few words."
The audience broke into polite applause as Neville, still clutching the plaque awkwardly to his chest, shuffled forward. His heart pounded like a drum. For a brief, terrible second, he wished the floor would just swallow him whole.
He stopped at the podium, looked out at the hundreds of faces staring back, and gave a nervous little smile.
"Er… thank you," he began, his voice magnified through the charm woven into the stand. The sound of it echoing back at him made him wince slightly. "I'm not great at speeches, so… I'll keep this short."
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the room.
"I'd like to thank the Minister, the Wizengamot, and everyone here tonight," Neville continued, glancing toward the front row. "I also want to thank my gran who's looked after me since i was young" Augusta gave a dignified nod, though Neville could see the faint twitch of a smile.
"And my friends, who put up with me" he added, glancing briefly at Harry and Hermione.
He then said more quietly, "And my parents… who saved me when I was little. Thank you." Augusta's head tilted ever so slightly, her expression unreadable but her eyes glistening with pride.
neville continued "I'd also like to thank everyone who recommended me for this. I owe you all."
His eyes found the Greengrass family's table, and he nodded respectfully in their direction. Lord Greengrass inclined his head in return.
"Thank you," Neville said simply. "All of you.",
He paused, then continued, "I also want to thank Madam Poppy Pomfrey."
At once, heads turned toward the mediwitch, who looked startled at first.
"Could you please stand, Madam Pomfrey?" Neville asked, smiling faintly.
She blinked, flustered, but rose from her chair with a modest smile.
"Everyone," Neville said, clapping his hands together, "please give her a round of applause."
The hall filled with warm applause, genuine and heartfelt. The sound echoed softly against the gilded walls, the melody of clapping hands somehow more sincere than all the formal speeches.
Neville waited for the noise to fade before continuing, his tone firmer now, his nerves finally giving way to conviction.
"If anyone here deserves this award, it's her," he said. "I might've stumbled onto the idea by accident, but she's the one who did the real work—testing, measuring, figuring out what dose was safe, how long the effects lasted, and whether there were any side effects. She's also the one who wrote the paper on it and submitted it to St Mungo's."
Madam Pomfrey's cheeks flushed pink, and she pressed her hands together in a small bow, clearly embarrassed but deeply touched.
"So," Neville said, a small smile tugging at his lips, "if anyone's earned this Order of Merlin, it's Madam Pomfrey."
There was another round of applause, louder this time.
He smiled down at Madam Pomfrey, who mouthed a thank you, and Neville nodded back.
"And… I've decided to split the prize money with Madam Pomfrey," he said. "And I'll be donating my share of it to St Mungo's—to help fund the treatment for other patients who can't afford it."
A ripple of surprised murmurs moved through the crowd. Neville glanced awkwardly at Fudge, who was blinking as though someone had just told him his dessert had been cancelled.
"Er—thank you," Neville added quickly, gripping the plaque a little tighter.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the hall erupted into applause.
This time, it wasn't the polite, measured clapping of officials—it was real, heartfelt. Witches and wizards across the hall rose to their feet. Even Dumbledore, seated near the front, was clapping slowly with a faint, approving smile.
Neville's face burned as he stepped back from the podium. He made his way down the steps amid the thunderous applause, the medal glinting faintly under the light. By the time he reached his seat, his legs felt like jelly.
He dropped into his chair and let out an exaggerated sigh. half under his breath.
Hermione beamed at him, eyes bright. "That was so good, Neville. Honestly, it was perfect."
Augusta reached over, patting his shoulder with rare tenderness. Her voice softened, though her posture remained impeccable. "I'm proud of you, my boy."
Harry grinned and clapped him on the back. "You did well—and you even managed not to trip into the Minister. That's got to count as a win."
Neville chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah," he said quietly, a relieved smile tugging at his lips. "I'd rather not do it again; that was more stressful than facing down the Grabhorn."
The applause faded into the pleasant hum of voices and the soft clink of glassware. Lights brightened once more, and with a flick of wands from the staff the rows of chairs reshaped into polished tables laid with gleaming cutlery and crystal goblets. A gentle melody drifted from the band on the side stage—soft, soothing, and expensive-sounding.
Neville had just lifted his glass of water when a bright, syrupy voice sliced through the crowd.
"Mr Longbottom! Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet—may I?"
Before he could so much as blink, she was already speaking again, a quill hovering beside her like a vulture waiting for a carcass. "Tell me, Mr Longbottom, how did you accidentally stumble upon the treatment for blood malediction? Were you experimenting, or was it all a stroke of divine inspiration?"
Augusta's head turned with the precision of a hawk locking onto prey. "Later, Miss Skeeter," she said crisply. "After dinner, if my grandson wishes to speak."
Rita smiled with oily persistence. "But Madam Longbottom, the wizarding world is waiting to hear from Britain's youngest recipient of the Order of Merlin—Second Class, no less! Perhaps just a word on how it feels to—"
Augusta's tone sharpened like a blade. "Miss Skeeter, there will be an official press briefing later this evening. Please refrain from causing any further disturbance. If you continue to insist, I'll be forced to call security to escort you."
For a moment, Rita's painted smile wavered. Then she forced it back into place. "Of course, ma'am, of course. My apologies—just ever so excited."
She glided off with her acid-green quill still scribbling mid-air behind her like an obedient insect.
Neville let out a breath of relief. "Thanks, Gran."
Augusta gave a dignified nod, taking a slow sip of her wine. "Vultures, the lot of them."
Harry leaned forward. "Who was that?"
Hermione frowned. "Rita Skeeter. She's a journalist for the Daily Prophet—well, a gossip columnist, really. She'll twist your words into something dreadful if she can."
Neville nodded, then froze when a familiar voice drifted from behind him.
"Ah, here you all are."
He turned to see Dumbledore approaching, serene as ever, a portly man with a wide, genial face beside him.
"Good evening, Madam Longbottom," Dumbledore greeted, bowing slightly. "Harry, my boy, Miss Granger—and congratulations, Mr Longbottom, on your extraordinary achievement."
"Thank you, Professor," Neville said politely.
"Professor Dumbledore," Harry greeted, giving a small nod.
"Professor Dumbledore," Hermione echoed, voice warm but a touch wary.
Augusta inclined her head to both men. "Professors."
Dumbledore gestured to the man beside him. "Allow me to introduce an old colleague—Professor Horace Slughorn."
Slughorn's smile was broad and genuine as he extended his hand to Augusta. "My dear girl, it's been far too long. You look splendid—positively radiant!"
Augusta chuckled softly. "Still as flattering as ever, Professor. It's good to see you again." She turned slightly. "This is my grandson, Neville, and his friends, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger."
"Ah, the man of the hour!" Slughorn boomed, shaking Neville's hand warmly. "Congratulations, my boy. Very few witches or wizards ever achieve such an honor in their lifetime. Magnificent work—magnificent!"
"Thank you, sir," Neville said. Then, with feigned innocence, "Er—how do you know my gran, exactly?"
Augusta's lips twitched. "Professor Slughorn taught me Potions. He was also my Head of House when I was at Hogwarts."
"Indeed I was!" Slughorn said with a jovial laugh. "And a fine student she was, too"
Dumbledore chuckled lightly. "Professor Slughorn taught Potions for quite a few years—longer than I've been Headmaster, in fact. He even taught your parents, Neville."
Slughorn's expression softened with fond remembrance. "Ah yes—Frank and Alice. Two of the bravest young Aurors I ever had the pleasure to teach. Frank's essays were dreadful, but he could brew under pressure like few others. And Alice, dear girl, was brilliant as well."
Neville nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Slughorn smiled gently. "The apple hasn't fallen far from the tree, I see. I daresay they'd be proud."
Augusta inclined her head, her voice composed but quiet. "I'm certain they would be."
Slughorn's joviality brightened again, the warm gleam returning to his eyes.
"Now then, my boy, about this discovery of yours—using phoenix tears! Simple, but most brilliant! You must have a natural instinct for the subtle. Many would never have thought to look for such a straightforward answer."
Neville rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks colouring. "Well… I find that wizards tend to complicate things, sir. Most of the time, the answer's right there in nature—you just have to pay attention."
"Ha!" Slughorn boomed, delighted. "Wisdom beyond your years! I've said it myself for decades—magic and nature are partners, not rivals. You're absolutely right." He chuckled, tapping Neville lightly on the shoulder. Then he fished a small ivory card from his inner pocket and pressed it into Neville's hand. "Do owl me if you ever wish to talk more about potions. Always room in my little circle for promising minds."
He turned next to Harry and Hermione. "And you must be Mr Potter—your mother was one of my finest. Lily Evans—what a prodigy she was! Brilliant girl, marvelous in Potions. Terrible loss… terrible."
Harry blinked. "You knew my mum?"
"Of course! Taught her myself," Slughorn said fondly. "If you have half her talent, you'll be turning cauldrons to gold by the end of your schooling."
Harry smiled faintly. "I'll settle for not blowing them up."
Slughorn laughed. "Practical as ever, eh? Good lad."
He turned to Hermione and offered a courtly nod. "And you, my dear—Miss Granger, is it? Heard fine things about you as well. Dumbledore's told me you're the brightest witch of your year. A pleasure to meet you."
Hermione flushed. "Thank you, sir."
Slughorn's eyes twinkled as he patted Neville's shoulder one last time. "Enjoy the evening, my boy. It's not every day you join the history books!"
With that, he waddled off toward another cluster of guests, Dumbledore following at a slower pace, his eyes lingering on Neville for a fraction too long before he turned away.
…
By the time pudding vanished, the band shifted seamlessly into a lilting waltz.The chatter softened to a low hum as couples began moving gracefully onto the dance floor.
Harry, Neville, and Hermione stood together beside the punch bowl near the corner of the room, doing their best to remain out of sight. From where they stood, Neville could see Dumbledore talking with a cluster of Wizengamot members near the front, and Molly Weasley scanning the crowd, clearly trying to spot Harry.
"Stay still," Harry muttered. "If she sees me, we're done for."
Neville hid a grin. "Relax. She can't spot you from here."
Hermione, who'd been watching the dance floor with quiet fascination, sighed softly. "It looks lovely," she murmured, eyes following the couple's gliding to the rhythm.
Neville glanced at her. "You know how to dance?"
Hermione looked at them both. "I learned when I was little. What about you two?"
Neville shrugged. "Gran had me and Harry take some classes last summer."
Harry groaned. "Yeah, and I kept tripping the instructor."
Neville chuckled, then looked back at Hermione. "Well, if you want, we could give it a go."
Her cheeks turned faintly pink. "Are you sure about that?"
He smiled, offering his hand. "No point in learning it if you never use it. Though, I can't guarantee I won't step on your toes."
Hermione hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand in his. "I'll take my chances."
They walked out onto the dance floor as the music swelled around them. For a few moments, their steps were awkward and uncertain, Neville concentrating far too hard on which foot went where. He nearly stepped on her once, and Hermione let out a light laugh that instantly eased the tension.
"Left," she whispered teasingly.
"I was going left," he protested, grinning despite himself.
Within a minute, they found their rhythm. The movement became easier, natural, and before long they were talking and laughing softly in time with the waltz, lost in the golden haze of light and music.
Back near the punch bowl, a soft voice interrupted Harry's attempt to look inconspicuous. "Aren't you going to dance?"
Harry turned—and blinked. Standing there in an elegant pale-blue gown was Daphne Greengrass, her usual calm expression replaced by something that looked suspiciously like amusement.
"Er—not really good at it," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'd probably just step on someone's foot."
Daphne raised an eyebrow and took a step closer. "Then you can step on mine first."
Harry hesitated, caught off guard, then gave a small shrug and took her hand. "All right—but don't say I didn't warn you."
She smiled faintly. "I'll risk it."
Together, they joined the crowd on the dance floor, the pale blue of her gown swirling against the dark of his robes as they disappeared into the motion of the waltz.
When the song finally ended, the crowd broke into light applause and laughter. Neville and Hermione separated, both flushed and smiling.
"That was fun," Neville said as they stepped back from the floor.
Hermione nodded, still catching her breath. "It really was."
They made their way back toward the table with the punch bowl and noticed Harry wasn't there. Neville turned, scanning the dance floor, and spotted him walking back with Daphne Greengrass beside him.
Daphne's composure was as perfect as ever, though there was a small, satisfied curve to her lips.
"Daphne," Neville greeted her with a polite nod.
Hermione smiled and added, "Hello, Daphne."
"Hermione," Daphne replied smoothly, her eyes briefly meeting Hermione's before returning to Neville. "And congratulations, Neville, on your achievement."
Neville nodded modestly. "Thank you."
She inclined her head slightly before turning back to Harry, who looked as if he wasn't entirely sure what had just happened.
Just then, Draco Malfoy strutted over, flanked as always by Crabbe and Goyle. His silver-blond hair gleamed under the golden lights, and his smug expression could have soured milk. From the way he angled his walk, it was obvious he was trying to catch Daphne Greengrass's attention.
"Well," Draco drawled, voice dripping with self-satisfaction, "still basking in the limelight, Longbottom?"
Neville turned, brows furrowing. "Huh? Draco… what do you want?"
Draco rarely approached him these days—mainly because every time he did, it ended poorly for him.
Draco gave a disdainful sniff. "Oh, nothing much. Just thought I'd see what all the fuss was about. Imagine—you getting an Order of Merlin. How very… quaint."
Neville tilted his head. "You sure you want to start this here? In front of all these people?"
Draco smirked, clearly not taking the hint. "Oh, I'm not starting anything, Longbottom. I just think it's amusing how low the Ministry's standards have dropped. Next thing you know, they'll be handing out medals to Hufflepuffs for good behaviour."
Harry's eyes narrowed, but Neville just looked at him flatly, unimpressed. "Merlin's beard, Malfoy, where do you even get this much confidence from all of a sudden?"
"Oh, don't look so cross, Longbottom," Draco went on smoothly. "I only came to offer my congratulations. After all, it's not every day they hand out awards to—what was it again?—accidental discoveries?"
Neville's eyebrow twitched, but he stayed quiet, folding his arms.
Draco grinned, mistaking Neville's calm for weakness. "Truly, I'm impressed. You managed to stumble into a cure without blowing yourself up. That's real talent. Maybe they'll name a hospital wing after you—the 'Longbottom Wing for Lucky Accidents.'"
Harry's jaw clenched. "Careful, Malfoy."
Draco turned to him with mock surprise. "Oh, Potter, you're here too. Didn't see you hiding behind your friend's medal. Must be difficult, being the other famous one at the table tonight, hmm?"
Harry's expression darkened, but Neville put a hand on his arm, silently telling him to let it go.
Draco carried on. "You know, my father was quite shocked when we heard the minister. Said it's a sign the Ministry's gone soft—handing out Merlins to schoolchildren instead of to people who actually matter."
Neville raised an eyebrow, unbothered. "Your father does like to have opinions about Hogwarts, doesn't he? Especially when it comes to… what goes on beneath it."
Draco blinked, confusion flickering for a moment. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Neville gave a casual shrug, swirling the drink in his glass. "Oh, nothing. Just that some people always seem to know a lot about certain incidents before anyone else does. You'd think they were there themselves."
Draco's posture stiffened, his smirk faltering for the briefest second.
Harry frowned faintly beside Neville, but kept quiet.
Neville's tone stayed light, almost conversational. "Rumour is, someone managed to slip a very nasty artefact into Hogwarts last year. Dangerous stuff—something only an adult would have had access to. Makes you wonder where a first-year could've gotten it, doesn't it?"
Draco's grey eyes hardened. "Careful what you're suggesting, Longbottom."
"I'm not suggesting anything," Neville said evenly. "Just thinking out loud." His voice dropped slightly. "Funny thing about secrets, though—they have a habit of crawling back into the light eventually."
For a brief moment, the colour drained from Draco's face. He recovered quickly, straightening his shoulders and forcing a scoff. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Neville tilted his head. "Maybe. Or maybe I know exactly what I'm talking about."
The faint tension in the air drew the attention of a few nearby guests. Daphne Greengrass glanced between them, eyes narrowing slightly.
Draco huffed, trying to look unaffected. "You really are full of yourself, Longbottom."
Neville let out a low chuckle—and that made Draco pause.
"What's funny?" Draco snapped.
Neville let out a low chuckle, and that made Draco pause. "What's funny?"
Neville tilted his head. "You. Trying so hard to sound like your father. It's almost adorable."
Harry stifled a laugh. Even Daphne, standing nearby, bit the inside of her cheek to hide a smirk.
Draco's sneer deepened. "You think you're clever, Longbottom?"
Neville shrugged. "No, just observant. And right now, I'm observing someone who's trying way too hard not to look jealous."
The jab hit home. A faint murmur of laughter rippled through the nearby guests, and Draco's expression twisted. "Jealous? Of you? Don't make me laugh."
Neville smiled faintly. "Then why are you still standing here?"
Draco's nostrils flared. He drew himself up, his pride clearly stung. "I don't have to waste my time with you, Longbottom."
"Good," Neville said casually. "Because I was about to ask you to move. You're blocking the punch."
That did it. A few people nearby snickered outright, and Draco's pale face flushed red with embarrassment. He straightened his robes sharply, trying to regain composure.
"Well, enjoy your moment," he spat, forcing a sneer. "It won't last forever. People will forget you soon enough."
Neville raised an eyebrow, his tone mild but cutting. "Maybe. But at least when they do, they'll forget me for something good."
Draco's glare could have curdled milk. He turned sharply to leave
Unfortunately for him, Neville had other plans.
With a casual snap of his fingers, a barely visible charm tugged at Draco's ankle.
Draco's foot caught the edge of the carpet—and with a most satisfying thump, he pitched forward, right into the punch table. The enormous crystal bowl tipped with him, and a shower of bright-red punch splashed spectacularly across his robes.
For one glorious heartbeat, the room was silent.
Then the laughter started.
Harry doubled over, wheezing, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Even Daphne Greengrass let out a quiet, dignified chuckle, while several Wizengamot elders near the front table were seen struggling to maintain their composure.
Draco stood up, drenched from collar to cuff, his pale face burning a blotchy pink. He sent Neville a murderous glare before storming off, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering awkwardly after him, both trying not to laugh.
Hermione leaned toward Neville, still smiling despite herself, and whispered, "You really shouldn't have done that."
Neville smirked, shrugged. "What, He slipped."
Harry let out a snort, still grinning, but curiosity got the better of him. "Yeah, but what was that about, Neville? You really rattled him."
Daphne, who had been watching Draco's retreat with faint amusement, tilted her head, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Do you think his father might've been the one who placed that cursed diary in Flourish and Blotts last year?"
Hermione turned sharply. "Neville! You can't just accuse someone of that—especially someone like Lucius Malfoy. You could get into serious trouble."
Neville gave a nonchalant shrug. "I'm not accusing anyone," he said evenly. "I'm just saying… think about it for a second."
The others leaned in slightly, his tone drawing them closer.
"Why was Lucius Malfoy so invested in Hogwarts last year?" Neville asked quietly. "He went as far as to blackmail the other school governors into sacking Dumbledore. Every move he made screamed that he was hiding something. And tell me this—why was he so obsessed with the idea of muggle-borns being targeted? You saw Draco—he was practically cheering the attacks last year. Too smug for someone who didn't know anything."
Hermione's lips parted, her eyes darting between them. "That's… actually not impossible," she admitted reluctantly. "He was very vocal about it."
Daphne's expression hardened slightly. "It fits. And Father said Lucius was unusually persistent at the Governors' meetings, even for him."
Harry exhaled, rubbing his neck. "Well, that would explain a lot."
Before anyone could respond, the band struck up another tune—this one a slow, graceful waltz that drew attention back to the dance floor.
As the laughter and music swelled again, Lord Cyrus Greengrass and his wife Ophelia approached with Astoria in tow, their movements elegant and measured.
"Father," Daphne greeted softly with a small nod.
Neville and Harry both bowed politely. "Lord, Lady Greengrass," they said in unison.
Hermione added a graceful curtsey. "My lord, my lady."
Both Cyrus and Ophelia returned the gesture with warm civility.
Cyrus glanced around. "Where is your grandmother, Mr Longbottom?"
Neville smiled faintly. "She's around here somewhere—likely catching up with old friends."
"Well then," Cyrus said, tone light but proud, "congratulations are in order, Mr Longbottom."
Neville inclined his head. "Thank you, I don't think I'd have won it if it weren't for your family's recommendation."
Ophelia waved a slender hand dismissively. "Nonsense. You'd have earned it regardless—it was an extraordinary discovery. Our family will always be grateful for what you've done."
Cyrus nodded in agreement. "That's actually why we came over. Would this Sunday evening be suitable for our dinner?"
Neville straightened slightly. "Er. I would have to ask grand."
"Of course, but do let us know." Ophelia nodded.
The band transitioned into a new melody, then a softer tune that made the golden lanterns overhead shimmer more brightly.
At that moment, Astoria tugged lightly on her mother's sleeve. Ophelia glanced down, and her lips curved into a knowing smile as she followed her daughter's gaze—straight toward Neville.
"Well, Mr Longbottom," she said with a faint laugh, "it seems little Astoria would like a dance."
Astoria's face flushed scarlet as everyone turned toward her. She stammered, "M-Mother!" but the look on her face said otherwise.
Neville rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, smiling. "Er—sure, why not?"
Astoria's blush deepened, but she gave a shy little nod as Neville offered his hand.
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