Hogwarts: Neville's Insert Chapter 51
She'll come back for it as soon as the Confundus wears off, Neville thought. Better to let her find it naturally.
Still hidden under the Invisibility Cloak, Neville slipped back into the same empty room where he had hidden earlier.
He pulled the cloak off and paced, his mind racing.
"Where could the diary be? Did she leave it in her dorm?" He shook his head. 'No… that doesn't make sense. The diary should have latched onto her by now.'
Neville's thoughts drifted back to Flourish and Blotts. "Lucius…" He frowned, his mind piecing together the events from the summer. He remembered from the movies — Lucius Malfoy had slipped the diary into Ginny's cauldron when the Weasleys ran into him at the bookshop.
But then…
Neville's pacing stopped abruptly. His eyes narrowed as a sudden realisation hit him. "Wait… did Lucius even give Ginny the diary this time?"
Harry hadn't been there at Flourish and Blotts. If Harry wasn't there, Draco wouldn't have had a reason to make a scene.
"If that didn't happen…" Neville muttered aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. "That means… Lucius never gave Ginny the diary."
Neville's heart hammered in his chest. "Then… who has the diary?"
The realisation left Neville feeling even more uneasy. The timeline had shifted. And now… the danger was out there.
…
September 17th, 1992 – Great Hall, Breakfast
Neville sat at the Gryffindor table, a copy of Intermediate Runes & Their Interpretive Patterns open in front of him. The pages were crisp, the print sharp, but his attention was nowhere near the book.
His eyes flicked about the hall, scanning faces with a furrowed brow. He wasn't really sure what he was looking for—just that he hadn't found it yet.
I'm not going to find them like this, he thought with a sigh, snapping the book shut.
A steaming mug of coffee popped into existence on the table in front of him. He muttered a quiet, "Thanks," and took a sip, letting the heat chase away the early morning chill that clung to his bones.
He stifled another yawn—his third of the morning—when Hermione's voice cut through the din of breakfast chatter.
"Honestly, Neville," she said, arms crossed, tone halfway between concerned and exasperated. "You really should go and sleep. You look dreadful. You've barely slept all week."
"I'm fine," Neville replied, lifting a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Just a bit knackered, that's all. Another cup of coffee'll sort me out."
Hermione frowned. "You can't keep this up. Coffee's not a substitute for sleep, you know."
From across the table, Luna Lovegood—perched next to Hermione, idly twirling her spoon—tilted her head. "He must be plagued by Nargles," she offered serenely.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Luna, this isn't about Nargles. He's being a stubborn idiot, that's all."
She turned her glare back to Neville. "You've been in the common room every night with that lamp on. Don't think I haven't noticed. You can't possibly be paying attention in class."
Neville gave a weak smile, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the dark circles under his eyes. "I'm focusing," he said. "Really. Fine as can be."
Harry, seated on Neville's other side, leaned in with a puzzled look. "I still don't get why you're learning runes now. We don't even take Ancient Runes 'til next year."
Neville scratched the back of his neck, trying not to look too sheepish. "I just find it interesting, that's all."
Ron, who'd been half-buried in a mountain of scrambled eggs, snorted. "Studying something a year early? That's barmy, mate." He gave Neville a look like he'd grown an extra head. "Though, to be fair, Hermione'd normally be handing you a gold star for it."
Hermione sniffed and turned her nose up. "Not if it's costing him his health."
She looked back at Neville, her expression softening a little. "Seriously, Neville. Just… take a nap or something, yeah?"
Luna, still chewing on her pudding, gave a thoughtful nod. "I do relate, to reading things ahead of time. Daddy always said it was best to be prepared—like the time we went searching for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. One never knows when knowledge might become essential."
Hermione gave her a flat look, but Neville chuckled softly. "You get me, Luna," he said, grinning just to wind Hermione up.
Hermione cut in primly, lips pressed tight. "He's only doing it because he's worried about something. But he refuses to tell us the full story."
Harry, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, leaned in. "Is it… because of the voice?"
Hermione nodded, lowering her voice. "You've been like this ever since Harry told us about it. That's got to be it."
Luna tilted her head, interest piqued. "Voice? What voice?"
Neville sighed and rubbed his temples. "It's something else. I'm fine, really. Just tired, that's all. Luna, we'll tell you about it later—but for now, don't go wandering the castle on your own, alright?"
Luna blinked once, then nodded solemnly. "I understand."
Hermione's frown deepened as she turned back to Neville. "Go back to the dorm and sleep. Now."
"Look," Neville said, half-yawning again. "I'll rest later. I promise. After lunch, maybe."
Hermione crossed her arms. "But we've got History of Magic after lunch. Which you sleep through anyway. Might as well do it in your dorm bed where you won't drool on your parchment."
Neville raised an eyebrow. "We've got History of Magic after lunch?" he said, then gasped theatrically, clutching at his chest. "Merlin's beard—Hermione Granger is telling me to skip class! Who are you, and what have you done with the real Hermione?"
Without missing a beat, Hermione reached over and whacked him on the arm with the book she'd been reading. "Prat," she muttered, turning her head away with a huff. "It's not like you actually listen to Binns. You're snoring by the second minute. I was merely suggesting you sleep somewhere proper if you're going to nap anyway."
Harry sniggered, reaching for a bit of roast chicken from a nearby platter. "She does have a point, mate."
Truth be told, Neville wasn't studying runes because he fancied being ahead of the syllabus. He was trying to track down whoever had got their hands on that blasted diary.
It had been a few weeks since he'd Confunded Ginny Weasley and confirmed she didn't have it. At the time, he'd assumed she must've just left the thing back in her dorm room—but the more he thought about it, the less sense that made. From what he half-remembered, the diary latched onto her. It wouldn't just be lying around.
Then another possibility dawned on him: maybe Ginny was never given the book in the first place.
Lucius Malfoy had supposedly slipped it into her cauldron during the incident at Flourish and Blotts. But if Harry hadn't been there that day—hadn't gotten into a spat with Draco—then maybe Lucius hadn't had the excuse or opportunity to target the Weasleys. Draco was a spiteful little git, sure, but even he might not have gone out of his way to cause a scene without Potter as the centrepiece.
So if Ginny didn't have the diary, who did?
Just to be sure, Neville had started keeping watch. He'd stayed up every night in the common room, pretending to read, but really just watching to see if Ginny—or anyone else—was sneaking off when they thought no one was looking.
After a week of late nights and a complete lack of suspicious activity, Neville had gotten desperate. He tried warding the entrance to the bathroom near the common room to see who might be moving about at odd hours. That plan went sideways fast—turns out warding was advanced magic, tied up in arithmancy and runes. And he had neither the sleep nor the study to wrap his head around it properly.
Hence the book on runes, hence the bloodshot eyes and yawning through breakfast, and hence the reason he was nearly roasted alive in Potions yesterday.
He'd almost added powdered wartcap to his Fire-Protection Potion without grinding it properly, which would've caused the whole cauldron to go up in flames. And with Snape watching him like a hawk, that would've meant a week's worth of detentions scrubbing cauldrons by hand. Only Hermione stopping him at the last second had saved him. He could still hear her hiss: "Powder, Neville! Not chunks!"
The only good news so far was that the Chamber hadn't been opened again. No new attacks, and Harry hadn't heard the basilisk lately. But that didn't mean it was over—just that whoever had the diary was laying low.
Neville had narrowed it down, at least. It had to be a Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff. He'd ruled out Slytherin—not because they were above it, but precisely because they weren't. Slytherin House was made up mostly of pure-blood and half-blood students, many from families who had backed Voldemort during the war. Lucius Malfoy wouldn't risk handing something like the diary to one of them. No, he'd want distance—plausible deniability. He'd have slipped it to someone expendable, someone without deep political ties or a pure-blood background. A Muggle-born, maybe, or someone from a House known for opposing Voldemort during the war. Someone who wouldn't be missed by the kind of people Lucius cared about.
So now Neville was back at square one—sleep-deprived, frustrated, and staring down a full day of classes while trying to spot signs of possession.
All he had to do was figure out which classmate was being slowly eaten alive by a soul-sucking diary. Easy.
Neville yawned again, long and loud, and let his head rest on the table. His eyes fluttered shut for just a moment. Sleep tugged at him like a stubborn Niffler after a coin pouch.
Across the table, Hermione shot him a look that could probably kill a lesser wizard. "Go sleep in the dorms, Neville."
He cracked one eye open, saw her expression, and sighed. "Yeah… I think you're right, Hermione. I'll go take a nap back in the dorms."
She nodded in approval, her tone softening. "Good. Go sleep. I'll share my notes with you later."
"Thanks," he mumbled. He swung his legs over the bench, hauled himself upright, and slung his bag over one shoulder.
With a lazy wave to the others, he muttered, "I'll see you lot later," and trudged out of the Great Hall.
As he headed towards the Grand Staircase, his feet dragging, he caught sight of the second-floor corridor and slowed. Something tugged at the back of his mind. He turned, hesitated, then veered off course.
Just a quick look. Couldn't hurt.
He wandered down the quiet corridor, the soft echo of his footsteps bouncing off the stone walls. As he turned a corner, he nearly collided with a small blonde girl in Slytherin robes.
She stumbled backwards, landing on the floor with a surprised squeak.
"Oh—sorry!" Neville said quickly, reaching down to help her up.
The girl brushed herself off, cheeks pink. "It's okay," she mumbled before scurrying off without another word.
Neville watched her go, blinking blearily, then shrugged and carried on down the corridor toward the second-floor girls' loo.
He slowed as he neared it, eyes flicking to the door.
Should I check? he thought.
A group of third-years passed behind him, chatting loudly.
Neville sighed. "Yeah, not getting labelled a pervert today," he muttered under his breath, stepping away. "And I don't exactly have anything on me that could kill a basilisk."
That thought stopped him cold.
He rubbed at his eyes. 'Right. The basilisk.' If he was remembering things properly—and honestly, at this point it was all half-remembered blur—Harry had only survived that thing by sheer dumb luck. Or, more accurately, plot armour. And Neville wasn't sure plot armour applied in real life.
'If it came down to me…'He grimaced. The best option he could think of was a rooster. Which wasn't exactly convenient. Or stealthy.
Neville wandered through the castle in a half-daze, lost in thought, until he suddenly realised he had was Definitely not near the Gryffindor Tower.
he was standing outside Professor Flitwick's classroom. He could hear the professor's high-pitched voice from inside, animatedly explaining something to his third-years.
Neville ran a hand through his hair, groaning. "I really need to get some sleep."
Neville's eyes landed on the staircase spiralling up toward the Astronomy Tower—and something clicked.
"The Room of Requirement… that's right," he muttered under his breath, already turning on his heel.
He climbed quickly, fatigue momentarily forgotten, until he reached the seventh floor. The corridor was quiet, dimly lit by flickering torches. He turned left, down a familiar stretch of stone hallway, until he saw it: the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying—and failing miserably—to teach trolls how to dance ballet. Opposite it was a blank wall.
'This is it,' Neville thought. He'd stumbled across the painting last year, but hadn't dared open the room of requirement, not with Quirrell skulking about and Voldemort hitching a ride on the back of his skull.
Neville glanced up and down the corridor. Empty.
He began pacing in front of the wall, focusing his thoughts with all the clarity he could muster through the exhaustion. 'I need something to fight the basilisk. I need something to fight the basilisk. I need something to fight the basilisk.'
On the third pass, a door shimmered into being.
He didn't waste a second. Grabbing the handle, Neville pulled it open and stepped inside.
The room was oddly quiet. It wasn't full of books or weapons like he'd half-expected—just a single wooden table at the centre of an otherwise empty space. Sitting on it were two objects: a silver dagger, and… an egg.
Neville furrowed his brow. "Why is there an egg here?"
Neville blinked. "Why is there an egg here?"
He approached slowly, eyeing the nest the egg was cradled in. He reached out and gently touched the shell with one finger.
The egg jerked under his touch, and a hairline crack split across its surface.
The egg wriggled again, a small chirp sounding from inside. A tiny beak poked through the shell.
"Well, alright then."
He reached forward and carefully peeled away the remaining fragments, revealing a small, fluffy chick. The tiny creature blinked up at him, dazed and slightly damp, then gave another soft chirp.
Neville stared. "A rooster, huh?"
The chick looked around with an air of bewildered. Neville reached out and lightly petted its head.
Without warning, the chick snapped at his finger.
"Oi! Watch it," Neville yelped, drawing his hand back and shaking it. A small bead of blood formed on his fingertip.
The chick blinked at him again, let out a vaguely apologetic chirp.
Neville stared. "...Did you just say sorry?"
He blinked again, rubbing his eyes. "Brilliant. Now I'm imagining poultry apologising to me. I really do need sleep."
Right on cue, a bed appeared beside him—full four-poster, crimson duvet, pillows fluffed to perfection.
Neville didn't even question it.
"Yeah, definitely too knackered to walk all the way back to Gryffindor Tower."
He left the chick nestled comfortably in its nest, shrugged off his bag and robes, and collapsed onto the bed. Within moments, he was out cold.
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