Neville consulted the letter he had just received from Hogwarts, the one containing his third-year supply list. He ticked off the required books, noting that it was a generic list. A faint smile touched his lips as he remembered how a certain founder's insistence had kept it that way, favouring students' self-teaching and the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake.
He recalled waking up that morning, the memories of his past life flooding back in a dizzying rush. The condition they had all agreed upon was to fully awaken upon turning thirteen, ensuring they could have a normal, worry-free childhood. It was an age when boys began to become men, and until then, it was better for the children who were their vessels to simply live their lives.
Neville glanced out of the window at the greenhouses of his family home, knowing something was missing from the envelope: the permission slip for Hogsmeade. The letter had arrived with its seal already broken. His grandmother had given it to him that way, offhandedly reminding him how clumsy he was and that his clumsiness dishonoured his parents' memory. After a moment of introspection, Neville realised how much of his former timidity was a direct result of this treatment. For years, they had ignored the boy he was and tried to mould him into someone he wasn't.
He folded the letter, placed it on his desk, and headed downstairs to find his grandmother in her study. As expected, she was there. He knocked softly on the door.
"Come in, Neville. And you can rest assured, I have already signed and sent the permission slip to your Head of House."
"I appreciate that, Gran," he said. Neville debated whether to reveal his new self now or to do so little by little. An ironic smile played on his lips; the gradual approach was a strategy his sly friend would favour, not someone as direct as himself. "I was wondering if we could go to Diagon Alley to get my supplies."
"Not today. We shall go next week. I have business to attend to at the Wizengamot."
"It has to do with Sirius Black's escape, doesn't it?"
"That is confidential information." His grandmother's curt voice ended the conversation. "Now, go and study for a while. See if a little hard work will make you a worthy member of Gryffindor and, of course, a suitable heir to this family. I must be off to the Ministry, and I am already running late."
Neville replied only with a nod. He had concluded that revealing such a radical change to his grandmother could be dangerous. It was better to wait until he was at Hogwarts. He sighed, amused at the thought that he was having to use one of Salazar's strategies instead of facing things head-on. What was certain, however, was that the timid, unconfident boy he had been was gone.
It always bothered him—a sharp sting of pain and anger—when his grandmother compared him to his parents, highlighting his differences from his father and insisting he use his father's wand. Now that he had awakened, Neville understood why his magic was so reluctant to flow through that particular conduit. He would have to resolve that issue, though he wasn't sure how just yet. As for the reproach about being worthy of Gryffindor, he had to restrain himself from retorting: And who is she to judge who is a worthy Gryffindor?
The irony was that he had listened to the Sorting Hat during his first year when it insisted there was more Gryffindor in him than he knew. Back then, believing his family's narrative that he was a clumsy boy lucky to even possess magic, Neville had pleaded to be sent to Hufflepuff. But the Hat had convinced him to accept what it saw as his true home, and for that, he knew he would have to thank it when he had the chance.
Neville spent the rest of the afternoon in the greenhouses, discovering that this hobby of his was a calming influence on his naturally impulsive temperament. It helped him to relax instead of rushing to conclusions, granting him a sense of peace he had only learned to cultivate over many years in his past life. The delicacy and attention the plants required soothed his spirit. Now, he possessed not only his old skills but also those he had gained in this life, and he planned to enhance them both.
At dinner time, a house-elf summoned him. His grandmother had not yet returned from the Ministry, so it was just him and his great-uncle, Algie.
"Where have you been all day, lad?"
"In the greenhouses."
"Hmph. A large part of our fortune may come from the cultivation of magical plants, but that won't make your grandmother proud of you."
"She will never be satisfied," Neville said, his voice imbued with a new decisiveness that stunned his great-uncle. "I will never be my father. Nothing I do will ever be to her liking. So I have decided it is better to dedicate myself to being me, rather than chasing the ghost of someone I can never be."
Perhaps he was already backtracking on his decision to be subtle, but Neville refused to be crushed or drawn into an endless argument over how he ought to behave. It was better to nip it in the bud.
"No two people are the same, and no son is his father, Uncle."
Algie stared at him for a long moment, then surprisingly changed the subject. "I'm going on a trip soon, around the Mediterranean. Would you like me to bring you back some plants?"
"If you find any interesting specimens that we could adapt to our greenhouses, that would be wonderful."
The dinner continued in silence; there was nothing more to be said. Neville had always had a better relationship with his uncle than with his grandmother; at least Algie had never deliberately belittled him. Of course, Neville hadn't forgotten his uncle's dangerous attempts to trigger his magic as a child. He wasn't spiteful—he understood his family's beliefs about magic were rather archaic—but he had not forgotten. It was clear to him that no one in this house was truly trustworthy. They had reduced his confidence to nothing, and even with his old memories returned, it would be a struggle to rebuild it. He could not trust them. That much was crystal clear.
"I'm taking the newspaper," he announced, rising from the table.
He took The Daily Prophet and went quietly up to his room, unfolding it on his bed. Sirius Black had escaped from Azkaban a week ago. The Ministry was now considering informing the Muggle Prime Minister to collaborate in the search. The news was worrying; Black was the first person ever recorded to have escaped the prison, and that had the whole of wizarding Britain on edge.
"Worrying, yes," Neville murmured to himself, "but I doubt this is the threat that has brought us back. I will have to find the others." He frowned, his mind racing. Last year, someone had used Salazar's Basilisk as a weapon to further blood-purity ideals. The year before that, there was an incident involving the Philosopher's Stone. He would have to ask Harry for all the details. Neville had a growing suspicion that the two events were connected.
Ever since returning from Hogwarts, Harry had been struggling to do his summer homework. To get to his supplies, he'd had to pick the lock on the cupboard under the stairs where they'd been hidden, before moving everything to his room. The Dursleys never entered his bedroom anyway, so it was a safe bet.
After finishing the chores assigned by his aunt, he spent his afternoons locked away, catching up on his essays. He certainly wasn't about to start the year with a week of detention. He began with Transfiguration, planning to leave Potions for last—it was always the most tedious.
It was the night of the thirtieth of July. After a rushed dinner, Harry had locked himself in his room to work on his History of Magic essay. The subject held little appeal for him and was slowly lulling him to sleep. He eventually drifted off at his desk, a cool night breeze drifting in through the open window.
It was after midnight when he woke with a violent start, as if surfacing from a nightmare. Moments later, his scar erupted in searing pain, a feeling like it was being split open. He tried to stand but collapsed to the floor, overwhelmed by the agony. He felt something pass through the scar, from the inside out. Through a haze of pain, Harry half-opened his eyes and saw a dark, humanoid shadow hovering in his room for a few seconds before it dissipated into nothing. The presence had felt sickeningly familiar, just like Tom Riddle in the Chamber.
"Bloody hell," he gasped.
He understood instantly what it was. His mind was suddenly host to a wealth of knowledge that he was certain hadn't been his hours earlier, yet it all felt perfectly natural, as if it had always been there. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply to centre himself, organising the new thoughts and searching for an explanation until he found it. "I've woken up."
He scanned his room; the dark residue of the shadow was gone. He was certain it had been destroyed. The very magic released during his awakening had purged the parasite. The implications of what it was, and what it meant, were deeply worrying. But it also explained so much. He began to tidy up his books, noticing his half-finished essay was now smudged with ink.
"Well, I'll be able to hand in a much better one now," he murmured to himself as two owls flew into the room. One was a school owl, and the other was Hedwig, who was struggling to support Errol, the Weasleys' ancient owl.
Harry took the letter from the Hogwarts owl first, stroking it gratefully and offering it a treat. "Don't you be jealous," he told Hedwig, who was ruffling her feathers in annoyance. "You know you're my favourite." The school owl hooted and departed, leaving the other two. "Do you mind if I put Errol on your perch? The poor thing is completely knackered." Hedwig's soft hoot told him she was satisfied.
With the owls resting, he opened the letters. The one from the school contained the usual information: the train would depart on the first of September, with the required booklist attached. He had already signed up for two electives, but he planned to buy the books for the others and study them on his own. Knowledge, after all, was power. Tucked inside the envelope was something else: a permission form to visit Hogsmeade village on designated weekends.
He growled under his breath. The Dursleys would have to sign it, and they would never willingly do anything that might bring him happiness. He would have to find a way to offer them an exchange—one that seemed beneficial to them, but in reality, served his own interests far more. Plan B was simply to forge his uncle's signature; it was a fairly simple scrawl. He would decide in the morning. For now, he knew he needed to get a few hours of sleep.