Hogwarts: Neville's Insert Chapter 97
Author's Note:
Hey guys!
Sorry again for the long wait on this chapter. I've also read through all the comments you left on the previous one—thank you so much for your patience and support.
It's not that I don't want to upload new chapters; it's just that I've been finding it really hard to write lately. I have the ideas in my head, but I just can't seem to put them into words properly. That's been my main struggle these past few months, and I know it's on me—I've definitely underdelivered recently.
I'll be doing my best to upload chapters more regularly from today onward. This one's about 4.5k words, so I really hope you enjoy it.
Again, I'm sorry for the inconvenience I've caused, and thank you all for sticking with me through it!
So he stayed in Alrick's room for the rest of the morning, poring over parchments and scraps of rune diagrams, researching how to make his own version of the Marauder's Map. It wasn't impossible, just incredibly complex — something like coding a magical map for a game. He'd need a detailed blueprint of Hogwarts' interior and a way to link it to the castle's wards for positional and location data.
The concept was there. He just had to make it work.
Back to the present.
Neville bit into his sandwich just as Hermione reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. She handed it across the table.
"Here's your class schedule, Neville," she said.
"Thanks, 'Mione," Neville replied, taking it and unfolding the sheet. His eyes skimmed the first line, and he groaned. "Oh, brilliant. We've got Potions first thing tomorrow. I can practically hear him already."
Neville mimics Snape's tone, "Well, well… if it isn't our newest celebrity. Tell me, Longbottom… did discovering one obvious thing make you think you're suddenly competent?"
Harry nearly choked on his pumpkin juice, snorting with laughter. "Yeah," he said between coughs, "I can definitely see that happening."
Hermione pressed her lips together, trying not to smile, and failed. "Honestly, Neville,"
…
Thursday, 2 September 1993 - North Tower Stairs, Early Morning
Neville and Harry climbed the long, narrow spiral staircase of the North Tower, their footsteps echoing softly off the stone. The air grew warmer and thicker the higher they went, the scent of something floral—or maybe just odd—wafting down from above.
Hermione had told them to go ahead; she'd dashed off to the loo a few minutes earlier, promising to catch up.
When they reached the top, they stopped at a small circular landing crowded with students from all four houses. There were no doors, no portraits—just bare stone walls and, oddly enough, nowhere obvious to go.
Harry frowned, glancing around. "Er… where's the classroom?"
Neville pointed upward. "Up there, mate."
Harry followed his gaze. A brass plaque gleamed on a trapdoor set in the ceiling. The inscription read "Sybill Trelawney – Divination".
Harry squinted at it, baffled. "How are we supposed to get up there, then?"
Neville opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, the trapdoor creaked and swung open. A ladder slid smoothly down, thudding softly onto the landing.
Neville smirked and nodded toward it. "That answers your question."
One by one, the students began climbing up. Lavender Brown went first, giggling nervously, followed by Parvati Patil and a few Ravenclaws. The scent of incense grew stronger with each student who disappeared through the opening.
Harry went next, muttering something under his breath about how much effort it took just to get to class. Neville followed close behind him.
He stepped up into a haze of warm, perfumed air and blinking lights. The classroom felt more like the inside of an over-decorated tent than part of a stone tower. Curtains draped thickly from every beam; coloured lamps and crystal balls shimmered in the half-light; everything smelled strongly of burnt flowers and something faintly sweet.
Neville wrinkled his nose.
They made their way to a table near the window on the left, slipping into the seats at the back. Neville sat by the window, Harry beside him, leaving the middle chair empty for Hermione.
Just as they got settled, a door behind the beaded curtains creaked open.
A woman glided—or rather drifted—into view, wrapped in layers of gauzy shawls, her massive round spectacles magnifying her eyes until she looked like some sort of insect.
Neville blinked at her, fighting the urge to cough from the incense. Huh. She looks like a hippie, he thought dryly.
Her bangles jingled as she clasped her hands together dramatically. "Welcome, welcome!" she said in a misty voice, each word floating like smoke in the air. "How lovely to see you all in the physical world at last."
Her voice, all airy and sing-song, didn't help either. 'And she even sounds like one… Merlin's beard, is she high?' he wondered,
The professor drifted toward the front of the class, shawls swishing. pausing behind a round table draped in purple velvet. "My name is Professor Trelawney. You may not have seen me before— I find that descending too often into the hustle and bustle of the main school clouds my Inner Eye."
Neville leaned back slightly, watching her with faint amusement. 'So that's why I've never seen her in the Great Hall before,' he thought.
She continued, voice lilting as she moved her hands theatrically through the air. "Divination is the most delicate of magical arts. If you do not possess the Sight, there is very little I can teach you. Books can only take one so far…"
Harry leaned sideways and whispered, "That definitely sounded like that line was meant for Hermione."
A voice spoke up right between them. "What line?"
Harry jumped, nearly knocking over his teacup. He turned to stare at Hermione, who had somehow appeared in the empty seat between them, slightly out of breath and clutching her bag.
"Huh—where did you come from?" Harry asked, looking utterly baffled.
Hermione frowned at him. "What are you talking about, Harry? I was here the whole time." She reached into her bag and pulled out her Divination textbook, setting it neatly on the table as if nothing was amiss.
Harry blinked at her, then looked at Neville with a silent Did you see that? sort of expression.
Neville just shrugged, keeping his face as straight as he could, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a faint smirk. She's trying to gaslight us, he thought, amused despite himself.
Just then, Hermione raised her hand. "Professor!"
Trelawney, who was mid-sentence—something about "talented though they are in the area of loud ban—" paused and turned toward her voice. "Professor!" Hermione called again, her tone polite but insistent.
Trelawney blinked through her enormous lenses, squinting in their direction. "Yes, my dear?"
Hermione lowered her hand. "Professor, I have a few questions I'd like to ask, if you don't mind."
Neville blinked, frowning slightly. 'Huh, what's she going to ask?' he wondered, leaning back in his chair.
Trelawney's eyes brightened, her bracelets jingling as she clasped her hands together. "Ah… ask, my child. Is it related to the class?"
"Yes, professor—it's about prophecies," Hermione began, her voice calm but curious. She cleared her throat before continuing, "I read that there are such things as true prophecies in the magical world. I was wondering—if a person is bound by one, are they able to break free from it? Or are prophecies absolute? Or are they just… possibilities?"
A ripple ran through the class at that. A few students exchanged uncertain glances. Harry turned sharply toward her, wide-eyed, and Neville's eyebrows shot up. 'What the hell, Hermione,' he thought, stomach twisting.
Trelawney drifted closer, the beads of her shawl swaying softly. Her tone lowered into something almost ethereal. "Prophecies," she said, "are not chains, my dear. They are currents. One may swim with them… or against them… but they always shape the waters around the one they touch. Some have tried to escape their destiny, but ultimately failed. For fate, you see…" she paused, her magnified eyes gleaming behind the glass, "…has a way of circling back."
Hermione nodded thoughtfully, her quill already in hand, as if taking mental notes.
Neville leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Hermione, maybe don't—" He nudged her under the table.
She didn't even glance at him, waving him off like an annoying insect.
"I have another question," she said quickly, eyes still on Trelawney. "How do we know if a prophecy is true or false? There must have been fake ones… misunderstandings… people pretending?"
Trelawney nodded. "Indeed, my dear. Many who claim the Sight are but hopeful imitators. True prophecies are exceedingly rare. They are spoken in trance—often without the Seer's awareness—and they carry a weight, a magical resonance that cannot be forged. Those who hear them know, without doubt, that what was spoken bears power."
Hermione inhaled deeply, thinking it through. "Right. And… thirdly—"
Neville, still keeping his face neutral, covered his mouth and nudged her harder under the table. "Hermione—don't—" he muttered urgently.
She shifted her foot just enough to push his leg back, her expression perfectly composed. "If someone makes a genuine prophecy," she continued calmly, "about a person—somewhere in the world—how would that person ever know? I mean, if it's made far away, or years earlier, or by someone completely unrelated to them… how does it get recorded?"
Neville exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 'Brilliant. She's really doing this.If Dumbledore finds out she asked that, he'll start suspecting we know. Hermione, please stop talking.'
Trelawney, however, looked positively delighted. "You ask questions that many scholars ponder for decades." She nodded sagely, waving her thin hands through the incense haze. "If a true prophecy is spoken, there are artifacts in the Department of Mysteries to record them, dear. Much like the Book of Admittance records the births of future Hogwarts students, each prophecy—when uttered—creates an orb. The jurisdiction of that particular Ministry records it, and later it is brought to the Hall of Prophecy within the Department of Mysteries, where it is kept safely."
The class leaned forward as one. Even Lavender and Parvati, who normally whispered through half their lessons, were silent now.
Trelawney's tone softened into a reverent whisper. "And yes… some prophecies are spoken centuries before they come to pass. Many individuals live their entire lives never knowing a prophecy concerns them."
Hermione nodded, jotting something in her notebook before asking, "Can anyone go into the Hall of Prophecy and… look at theirs?"
Trelawney's bracelets jingled as she shook her head. "Oh, heavens, no. The orbs are charmed you see. Only the individuals named in a prophecy may lift it from its shelf. Should anyone else attempt to take an orb not meant for them…" She shuddered theatrically, her voice dropping to a whisper. "…the consequences are severe. None have ever succeeded without harm."
Neville resisted the urge to groan. 'Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Let's just hope Dumbledore doesn't overthink these questions…'
Beside him, Hermione had fallen silent, eyes lowered to her open notebook, her expression thoughtful.
Trelawney clapped her hands together, the sharp sound cutting through the incense-heavy air. "Alright, my dears! Now—this term, we shall be covering the basic methods of Divination. The first term will be devoted to the reading of tea leaves. Next term, we shall progress to palmistry."
Her gaze swept the room, then stopped abruptly. "By the way, my dear," she said suddenly, pointing one ring-laden finger at Parvati Patil, "beware a red-haired man."
Parvati blinked, startled, before glancing sideways at Ron, whose face turned the exact shade of his hair. She immediately scooted an inch away, earning a few muffled snickers from the back of the class.
Neville raised his brows. 'Huh. Didn't Parvati—or was it her sister—end up as Ron's date to the Yule Ball next year? Did she just predict that?'
Trelawney went on, her voice floating dreamily through the haze, describing the "great journey of the Inner Eye" and what the year ahead would hold.
Neville only half-listened. He'd turned toward Harry and Hermione, who were whispering behind their hands.
Harry leaned in close, his voice barely audible. "So… my prophecy must be in the Ministry then."
Hermione nodded once, her tone measured. "It seems so."
Neville hissed quietly, keeping his voice low. "Hermione, why did you ask those questions?"
She whispered back, unruffled. "Because it's safer to have answers than guesses, Neville. And I kept it vague."
Neville scowled faintly. "I really hope this doesn't come back to bite us," he muttered under his breath. He wasn't entirely convinced—but there wasn't time to argue.
At the front of the room, Trelawney was gliding between tables, her shawls brushing against chairs. "Let us begin with something simple," she announced. "The reading of tea leaves. A subtle art… easily misunderstood."
She flicked her wand, and the tea sets on every table rattled to life. Porcelain cups floated neatly into place while the teapots poured themselves, filling the room with a faint floral scent and the gentle hiss of steam.
"You will each drink your tea," Trelawney instructed, "and when you have finished, swirl the dregs three times with your left hand, then invert your cups upon the saucers. Once they have drained, you will exchange cups and attempt to read your partner's future."
Neville, Harry, and Hermione each picked up a cup, the delicate china warm between their fingers. The tea was oddly perfumed—flowery, faintly spiced.
After finishing, they followed her instructions: swirling the remaining tea three times with their left hands, then inverting the cups onto their saucers to drain. The soft clinks of porcelain filled the air as everyone waited.
Trelawney moved slowly around the room, her bracelets chiming faintly. "Now, exchange your cups with your friends," she said, her tone lilting. "Broaden your minds… feel the patterns, the possibilities within the dregs of destiny."
Neville reached over and took Harry's cup while passing his own to Hermione. She, in turn, handed hers to Harry.
He curled his fingers around the cup's smooth porcelain, tilting it carefully as he studied the faint brown stains left behind. The leaves clung to the sides, forming little shapes against the white glaze.
Neville leaned in closer, tilting it toward the light. "Alright, let's see what destiny's got for you, Harry," he muttered under his breath.
Neville squinted, turning the cup slightly toward the light. A pattern caught his eye. There, at the bottom, was the unmistakable outline of a large dog.
Neville's eyes widen. 'Wait… that looks like a dog. Harry got that in the original timeline too. Does this mean Sirius is going to escape Azkaban?'
A flicker of hope stirred in his chest. 'If that's true, then Peter is still in the castle and i can find … otherwise Sirius wouldn't escape at all.'
He nodded, feeling the faintest trace of excitement rising beneath his calm expression. 'Alright… this could work. I still have a chance—all I have to do is find Pettigrew first.'
Neville looked up just as Trelawney began gliding toward their table, her shawls brushing against chairs as she moved. The chatter in the room dipped slightly as students noticed where she was headed.
When she stopped beside them, her enormous eyes—magnified absurdly by her glasses—locked onto Neville. Her expression shifted, growing pale and strangely grave.
"Oh my…" she breathed, clutching at one of her necklaces. "My boy… the stench of death clings to you."
The entire class froze.
Every conversation stopped at once; even the soft bubbling of teapots seemed to fade. All eyes turned to Neville.
He blinked, completely thrown. "…What?"
Then, slowly, he sniffed himself, frowning. "Do I really smell that bad? I had a shower this morning."
He turned to Hermione with a bewildered look, leaning closer. "Do I smell weird. to you Hermione?"
Hermione blinked, torn between disbelief and embarrassment. "Neville!" she hissed, trying not to laugh.
Neville scratched the back of his neck, looking back up at the professor. "Honestly though, now that I think about it…" He glanced down at his shoes, brow furrowed. "I might've stepped on something earlier."
That did it. The class erupted.
Laughter broke out from every table; Seamus was pounding his fist on the wood, tears streaming down his face. Harry doubled over, snorting helplessly, and even Hermione couldn't hold back a muffled snort behind her hand.
Trelawney, however, didn't laugh. Her expression was deadly serious, her eyes darting over Neville as though genuinely worried.
"Perhaps…" she said faintly, and turned to Harry and Hermione. "One of you—yes, one of you has his cup. Read it, if you please."
Hermione straightened in her seat. "Er—yes, Professor," she said quickly, turning it upright and reaching for the guidebook from the table.
She tilted the cup carefully, glancing between the brown smudges inside and the list of symbols in the book. "I see… a cross?" she said hesitantly. "It means… trials and suffering?"
Trelawney nodded gravely, her bangles chiming. "Go on, my dear."
Hermione squinted at another cluster of leaves. "That might be… a skull? Danger in your path?" She looked up, uncertain. "So—Neville will face trials, suffering, and danger in the future?"
Neville just shrugged, utterly unbothered. "Well," he muttered dryly, "that's not much of a surprise."
Harry let out another quiet snort.
"Let me see that, my dear," Trelawney said suddenly, her tone oddly strained. She reached out with trembling fingers and took Neville's cup from Hermione.
The moment her eyes fell upon the leaves inside, her face drained of colour. She gasped sharply, dropped the cup onto the table with a clatter, and staggered backward. Her shawls tangled around her arms as she stumbled—then fell onto the carpeted floor in a heap of silks and bangles.
The classroom went dead silent.
Every whisper, every shuffle stopped.
Neville's eyes widened. What on earth did she see? he thought, frozen in his seat.
Trelawney slowly pushed herself upright, her eyes glassy behind her enormous lenses. She looked pale, almost frightened, as she pointed a shaking finger at Neville. "That… that is bad," she breathed, voice quivering. "Really, really bad. You… you bear the Reaper, my boy."
"The what?" Harry asked, frowning.
The class erupted into a wave of hushed whispers, everyone craning their necks to see.
Harry reached for the cup and peered inside. "It looks like a—well, I don't know—a weird cross? Or maybe a tool or something."
Hermione snatched the Divination book from the table, flipping rapidly through the pages. Her brow furrowed until she found the right one, and then she read aloud, "'The Reaper, taking the form of a scythe, is among the darkest omens in our world. It is said those who bear the Reaper are marked by death itself, having once cheated it. Thereafter, they walk in its shadow. Danger follows in their wake, and those around them may sometimes be caught in its path.'"
She looked up, clearly sceptical. "Honestly, this sounds a bit overdramatic, doesn't it?"
Neville frowned, his thoughts churned. 'Well… I did die and transmigrate here, he mused silently. So maybe that's what it means. But Harry's Grim didn't mean his death—it symbolised meeting Sirius, whose Animagus form was a Grim. So… if mine's a scythe, does that mean…' A small grin tugged at his lips. 'Do I get a scythe in the future? That would actually be pretty cool.'
Around him, the class still buzzed nervously, but Neville just sat back, calm as ever.
…
after devination was over the trio made their way into Transfiguration classroom, the sound of chatter and scraping chairs filling the room. Professor McGonagall was already at the front, standing ramrod straight beside her desk, lips pressed into a thin line. She looked every bit the storm before it breaks.
"Hurry up and sit down, we don't have all day," she said sharply, her Scottish brogue clipped with irritation.
Neville quickly took the seat next to Hermione, while Harry slid in beside her on the other side. The moment they sat, Hermione leaned in and whispered, "She must still be cross after what happened in the dorms last night."
Neville winced, lowering his eyes to his desk. I'm really glad I didn't get caught, he thought grimly. I don't even know how I'd have explained being in the fifth-year dorms… they'd have labelled me a thief.
At the front, McGonagall gave the class a brisk nod. "Today, we'll be revisiting what you learned last year before we move on. Wands out."
The class obeyed instantly. For the next hour, McGonagall moved around the room as they practiced their previous transfigurations beetles to buttons, Rabbit slippers, Vera Verto, Porcupine to Pin Cushion, and the Avifors Spell. correcting wand movements and muttering sharp comments whenever someone slipped up.
"Miss Brown, less wrist flick, more focus."
"Mr Finnigan, try not to set it on fire this time."
"Mr Thomas, angles matter!"
No one dared speak louder than a whisper. The room stayed unusually quiet—just the hum of magic and the occasional "tsk" from McGonagall as she adjusted someone's form.
They all worked quietly, the only sounds the soft swish of robes and the occasional scrape of a chair. No one dared make much noise—not with Professor McGonagall in one of her sharper moods.
That went on for nearly an hour before she finally seemed satisfied. With a brisk nod, she tapped her wand against the desk. "Good. Now, for this year's curriculum."
A faint murmur rippled through the room as everyone straightened.
"This term," McGonagall began, pacing slowly in front of the class, "we will be studying the complex branch of Human Transfiguration. This is an exceptionally advanced field of magic—one that very few witches or wizards ever master."
Her sharp eyes swept across the room, ensuring she had everyone's attention. "Such transformations require unwavering focus, precise magical control, and a profound understanding of one's own magical core."
She paused for effect. "One of the most well-known applications of Human Transfiguration is the Animagus transformation. An Animagus," she continued, enunciating clearly, "is a witch or wizard capable of taking the form of an animal at will—without the aid of a potion or spell."
Then, without warning, she demonstrated.
Her figure shimmered—robes rippling—and in the blink of an eye, a tabby cat sat neatly on the front desk, its fur patterned with faint markings that looked like her spectacles.
But most of the class just stared, still distracted by what had happened earlier that morning in Divination.
McGonagall leapt lightly off the desk, landing on the floor. The cat blurred and stretched, robes reappearing as she resumed her human form, now standing exactly where she'd been moments ago.
She looked around expectantly.
The class remained dead silent.
"Really," she said at last, frowning. "What has got into you all today? Not that it matters, but that's the first time my transformation hasn't received applause from a class."
Her sharp gaze swept the room. Slowly, every head turned toward Neville, Harry, and Hermione.
McGonagall followed their stares, arching an eyebrow. "What did you lot do?"
Neville blinked, utterly lost. "Huh?"
Hermione raised her hand quickly. "Professor, we've just had our first Divination class, and we were reading the tea leaves, and—"
"Ah. Of course." McGonagall sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. "There's no need to say any more, Miss Granger. Tell me—" her tone turned wry—"which of you will be dying this year?"
Every head turned immediately toward Neville.
Neville stared back at them, then threw up his hands. "Hey—she said I had the stench of death and that I was marked by death. Not that I'm going to die. There's a difference!"
That earned a loud snort from Seamus and a chuckle from Harry, which quickly spread into a wave of laughter around the room.
"I see," said Professor McGonagall dryly, folding her arms. "You're taking her predictions lightly." She gave a single approving nod. "As you should. Sibyll Trelawney has predicted the death of one student a year since she arrived at this school. None of them has died yet."
The class chuckled softly, and McGonagall's mouth twitched before she continued. "Seeing death omens is her favourite way of greeting a new class. If it were not for the fact that I never speak ill of my colleagues—"
She stopped herself, exhaled, and then went on more calmly. "Divination is one of the most imprecise branches of magic. I shall not conceal from you that I have very little patience with it. True Seers are exceedingly rare, and true prophecies even rarer. I advise you all to take whatever you learn in that class with a healthy amount of scepticism."
She clapped her hands once, the sharp sound commanding immediate attention. "Now then—back to our lesson. As I was saying, Animagi are witches or wizards who can transform into animals most attuned to their personality and nature. It is a form of Human Transfiguration, and a very advanced one at that."
Neville raised a hand. McGonagall paused mid-sentence, her brows lifting slightly. "Yes, Mr Longbottom?"
Neville lowered his hand. "I… have a few questions about Animagi. One of which is—why? I mean, why do people choose to turn into animals? I can understand shrinking yourself or changing your appearance, but turning into an animal feels a bit… unnecessary?"
A ripple of quiet snickers spread across the room.
McGonagall's lips twitched, just shy of a smile. "An intelligent question, Mr Longbottom. The most common reasons are disguise, concealment, espionage, or practical utility. An Animagus may go places a human cannot. Some forms grant heightened senses—sight, smell, reflexes—while others provide protection or freedom of movement. And," she added, her tone softening slightly, "some witches and wizards pursue the transformation for deeply personal reasons."
She paused before adding, more softly, "My own Animagus form came from a desire to understand transfiguration on the deepest level. And… to observe things unseen."
Neville nodded thoughtfully. "Is there a way to detect an Animagus from a regular animal?" he asked.
"Yes," McGonagall said. "Firstly, most Animagi retain a distinctive physical marking associated with their human appearance. In my case, the spectacle markings on my cat form." She gestured at her glasses. "Beyond that, wards—such as Ministry perimeter wards—can detect the magical signature of an Animagus. Outside those? I'm afraid not."
Neville nodded again, absorbing that.
"And… is there a spell to turn them back into their human selves? Would a Finite work?"
McGonagall shook her head. "No, Mr Longbottom. Finite ends ongoing enchantments. An Animagus form is not a maintained spell—it is a true, physical transfiguration. There is no magical thread for Finite to sever."
She moved to the chalkboard, tapping it once. "However, there is a counter-spell: RevertoAnimagus. It forcibly restores an Animagus to their human form. It is an extremely advanced spell—taught only at N.E.W.T. level, and performed under strict supervision."
Neville nodded slowly—only for McGonagall to narrow her eyes at him. "And why, pray tell, are you so interested in Animagi today, Mr Longbottom? You are not planning to become one yourself, I hope. If so, I strongly advise you to wait until at least your fifth year. It is one of the most difficult magical disciplines one can undertake—and dangerous without guidance."
Neville scratched the back of his head, forcing a sheepish smile. "No, Professor. Just asking, that's all."
Inside, however, he thought, "Yeah right. I don't fancy running around the castle naked," considering how the animal forms of all Animagi are practically naked.
McGonagall nodded and moved on.
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