Author's Notes: Hello, if you're a new reader, I strongly recommend that you read the first three arcs of the Lionsnake Chronicles. I like canon-based characterizations, but will throw in fanon ideas or scenes found in the films to keep things interesting.

This is a Slytherin!Harry fanfic. There's still no pairings with Harry as of yet, though other characters around him are beginning to pair up. Of course, peers being what they are Harry is beginning to feel the pressure to conform in that regard.

I will update this story at least weekly. It's already written, but I'm still hammering out a lot of issues I'm not so fond of.

May you enjoy your reading adventure.

Sunday morning, Harry Potter woke with a startled jolt. Immediately, he brought a hand to his throbbing, lightning-shaped scar. This was the second time in a month he'd woken from a strange, vivid nightmare with the scar on his forehead hurting terribly, the second time he'd dreamt he was a massive snake, easily the size of that boa constrictor from Brazil he'd once accidentally let loose. It was bizarre that he was having these nightmares about places he didn't know with supporting characters he didn't recognize. Harry wished he could make out Voldemort's servant. He did know there had been a woman there, Voldemort's caretaker from the sounds of it… The only certainty was that they involved his fears involving Trelawney's prediction.

Yet, and this thought chilled him terribly, what if the dreams that had occurred with his scar hurting weren't simply dreams of anxiety and worry? What if at this very moment Voldemort was planning to use Harry for some awful ritual that included his blood? Had the evil wizard replaced a Hogwarts staff member to lure Harry out? Or… was the 'faithful servant' none other than Severus Snape, Harry's Slytherin Head of House…?

He shivered, chiding himself over his assumption against his previous legal guardian. It wasn't like Harry knew every Death Eater to crawl the Earth, so he couldn't jump to that conclusion. Beneath his cool fingertips the old scar continued to burn as if a white-hot wire was pressing against it. In the darkness, he reached out for his Glaxxes, wizard-made glasses that were much more durable than the old Muggle pair that had gotten Splinched last summer. He put them on and sat up in the darkness.

Neville's oblivious, soft snores came from the other side of the room they shared in Longbottom Manor. Since Harry had been adopted as a Ward of the Longbottom family, Harry hadn't minded fulfilling his brother's simple request. Besides, the Manor was large and uninviting enough as it was without sleeping in separate rooms. The snoring was never worse than the likes that Vernon Dursley had emitted.

Leaning towards the bedside table, Harry turned on an oil lamp with a twist of the tiny side-knob; a tiny spark magically leapt to the wick providing dim light in the room. Taking the lamp by the round handle, he padded out of the room and into the drafty corridor. As he went to Neville's personal study, he drew his cool fingers across the still-painful scar once more as he let out a troubled sigh.

Inside the room, he stopped at the mirror on the wall, pulling the black fringe from the distinct scar to get a closer look. A lean boy of average height looked back at him, his bright green eyes puzzled under his untidy bed-hair. Surprisingly, the scar didn't look swollen or bloody… Why would it hurt so much if it showed no sign of it…? The soreness reminded him of his accidental duel against Snape the previous year.

He was uneasy. Harry didn't know when he stopped believing in coincidences, but he felt better now that he believed that the scar-hurting nightmares were true. It meant he could act to do something about it. Looking into his green eyes, he said, "I'm not going to let myself be murdered."

"That's the spirit, sir," his mirror image said with a pleasant voice.

With a snort, Harry covered the scar by patting the messy hair down.

"I know a losing battle when I see one," the mirror said with a jolly hint of amusement.

"Oh, quiet."

"Why should I, when I'm brimming with witty commentary?"

Harry was not about to argue with himself as he had last week to Neville's overexcited laughter, so he stepped away from the mirror and set the oil lamp down on the table. If the two times his scar had burned weren't dreams, who catered to Voldemort's every whim? From the discussion that the male servant and Voldemort had when she was first brought in, she was supposed to have worked for the Ministry of Magic. What could she have known that Voldemort had found useful? Harry concentrated hard, frowning. Voldemort asked the brown-haired woman about the security of the Quidditch World Cup, asked her where it was to be held; what day it was to begin at and what time. He also asked her other things about the Triwizard Tournament and then he cast "Imperio!"

But that was all Harry could remember of that first dream. Harry had woken as soon as a mist-like substance had erupted from Voldemort's wand. Too much in a hurry to go to his own desk, Harry took out a quill, a full inkwell, and a page of parchment from Neville's stash in front of him and began to feverishly write down everything he remembered from his most recent one.

He'd been a snake called Nagini, who had a craving for rodents… who was often milked for her venom by the woman... The decrepit mansion stood at the top of a hill near a graveyard…

Inside, it was chilly everywhere and covered in layers of dust. Voldemort intended to stay there while he was too feeble to do anything for himself. With another faceless servant, a wizard by the raspy voice, Voldemort was plotting to kill someone before that person went after Harry... That was when Voldemort had spoken of the faithful servant at Hogwarts… Had he installed a new DADA instructor loyal to him? Harry let the memory of the 'dream' fill his mind.

Beside a roaring fireplace, Voldemort had been sitting in a chair with elegantly bowed legs… there was a rug next to the hearth. His conversation with the wizard had been interrupted by an old Muggle… a gardener Voldemort had called Bryce before he'd murdered the man in cold blood.

Reminded of the sharp pain that woke him, Harry rubbed his forehead and set the quill back into the inkwell. The feel of old magic in the study was somehow comforting. Grey light began to dimly color the sole window across from Harry. The sound of the old clock ticking filled the empty room.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind as Mrs. Longbottom had taught him every single day that summer. Worries and uneasy concerns sprang forth disturbing his attempt. He exhaled noisily. It was impossible. He would never be good at Occlumency. He couldn't keep his mind silent. It kept churning through terrible possibilities of misfortune, painful mistakes, and future failures.

After all, Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived. He knew that he would be forced to confront Voldemort, the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, likely this year. Harry didn't know how the evil wizard had survived, or why Harry was left alive with the scar as tribute to the dark magic that had touched him as an infant, but after Harry's refusal to join Voldemort's cause Harry knew he'd made a very real enemy.

Harry gazed at the shadowy bookcases around him. Longbottom Manor was odd and different. He hadn't grown up around magic. As per a ruling of Wizengamot Judges and some required magic performed with Mrs. Longbottom, Harry Potter had become the Legal Blood-Brother of Neville Longbottom.

Harry had lived with his awful Muggle relatives until the Ministry of Magic removed him from the Dursleys due to 'Child Mistreatment'. For the past two summers, Harry had lived with Severus Snape, a second cousin whose relation was close enough that the Blood Wards would protect Harry. He had been happy for a time, until the bastard had forced him away with some stupid ploy to have him turned over to Voldemort. Whatever the reason, Harry doubted Voldemort would take back someone who had renounced him so publicly.

Despite her unpleasantness, Augusta Longbottom née Prince was the next best candidate to temporarily adopt Harry. She was more closely related to Harry than Snape since she was Harry's great-aunt. Harry would have preferred to stay with his godfather, who was his second cousin once-removed. However, the trial date to prove the fugitive's innocence in the deaths of Harry's parents had yet to be set. Many times he had nearly picked up the compact Draco had given him to ask if he had heard anything, but didn't. He'd ignored Draco's yells when they came and stuffed the compact into a bag stuffed with worn out socks. Besides, why bother getting indebted to the prat more than he already was?

At any rate, it meant that Harry would live with someone his age—Mrs. Longbottom's other grandson. Harry had so far felt safe with the Matriarch of the Longbottom family; Mrs. Longbottom's son and daughter-in-law had been tortured with the Cruciatus Curse by Voldemort's followers until they went mad. Ever since, Mrs. Longbottom was very strict and extremely protective of her grandson, Neville, and Harry couldn't see her ever turning Harry over to Voldemort, even if the evil wizard managed to abduct Neville as leverage.

As for Neville's parents… they were currently lodged in St. Mungo's. They were pleasant, likeable people but they were unable to speak or hold any sort of attention. They had looked Harry over every five minutes as if he hadn't just been introduced the moment he'd met them and Alice, Neville's mum, had offered him a bubblegum wrapper same as she had with Neville. Harry was happy with that since he felt as if Neville's parents had accepted his presence in their family.

Even though Mrs. Longbottom told them to throw away the gum wrappers on their way out, the two of them had exchanged a defiant look and tucked the wrapper into their pockets. Without anything in his hand, Harry had patted the lid of the trash bin, which purred at the touch, on their way out.

When Harry had first learned he was a wizard four years ago, he was constantly surprised by everything magical. So, even something small like a purring trash bin could still catch him off guard. It'd been a great shock to find out Harry was a wizard, but even more so to know that his name was famous in the secretive Wizarding World. At eleven, Harry had thought it was very silly to think he was special because he had been present at the time of Voldemort's demise.

Now fourteen, his viewpoint hadn't changed. Something incredible had happened, Harry agreed, but he doubted it had much to do with him. Last year he would have said it was his mother's sacrifice that had protected him. Yet, an ancient wizard's portrait had said it was partly that and something else, but then refused to tell Harry what had saved his life. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with Harry's magical gifts.

Other than on the Quidditch Pitch or in Charms class, he wasn't particularly gifted or talented among the other Slytherins. His advanced-for-his-age dueling skill was a combination of the quick, inborn reflexes that were incredibly useful in a Quidditch match, intense study, and dedicated practice. After all, Harry was very keen to survive his schooling at Hogwarts. At the end of summer, he would be starting his fourth year there, the halfway point to finishing his basic magical education.

Presently, he was only two weeks away from school to begin; tomorrow was the Quidditch World Cup Final. As Harry sat on the chair and watched the window glow brighter from the impending sunrise, he was having second thoughts about going to the match. He knew he wouldn't be able to change Mrs. Longbottom's mind. She had insisted that she chaperone Neville and Harry when the letter from Theodore's father came with the invitations and tickets. Once Mrs. Longbottom made a decision—no matter how small and insignificant—it was absolute.

As the room became shrouded in a reddish orange glow, Harry picked up his now-dried parchment with the description of the dreams and went to the desk designated as his. His eyes paused over the numerous birthday cards he'd received. Before Harry had gone to Hogwarts, he'd never had a single friend. Now, he had been given so many things he actually liked or used that Harry had already written a letter to Professor Flitwick about placing an Undetectable Super-Extended Charm on his old trunk just to hold everything. The response from the Charms professor had been pleased, though Professor Flitwick declined due to his busy schedule. However, the professor promised to provide his fourth-year students with a lesson on that spell for Harry's benefit. That was even better.

Morning sunlight poured slowly over his desk, lighting the various trinkets on it. Harry's face nearly split wide into a smile as he remembered how his Slytherin year-mates had coordinated in sending him a mass of Slytherin paraphernalia with its traditional green-and-silver color scheme: quills, reams of parchment, patches, a fancy cardigan jumper, three pairs of socks, two ties—one with an animated silver snake upon it and the other with a flashing marquee regaling Slytherin's supremacy at Quidditch—a set of mittens, ear muffs, and frill-free night robes, all proudly stamped with the Slytherin Serpent on it. Harry thought that this was his housemates' rather thinly veiled response to him wearing Mrs. Weasley's handmade Slytherin jumper at the Slytherin's Quidditch Final last year. Just to thumb his nose at them, Harry would wear the jumper again.

He smiled as the sunlight poured into the room, filling in the corners and causing the shadows to retreat. He'd been happy to receive startled thank-yous when he surprised his summer-born friends with a special gift and card for them. Mrs. Longbottom had complained about Harry's spending, and yet didn't stop him from sending the birthday presents to Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, Bulstrode, Daphne, and even Draco. Harry had kept his promise to the prat even though it rankled him.

Harry touched the scar that no longer hurt. Obviously telling Snape the Death Eater about the dream was out of the question. It would only make the wizard insufferable in the coming school year if overt trust was given to him. Harry and Mrs. Longbottom were not on good enough terms for him to share something this important. Hermione would overly fret and insist he write to the headmaster, and this was not something he was comfortable telling Ginny or Sally-Anne.

Any of his other Slytherin year-mates couldn't be told either because they would report back to Draco who would report back to Snape, Draco's godfather. He could write to Theodore, but his friend had enough on his plate learning of the ins and outs of being a werewolf. And Lupin was out because, according to Theodore's weekly letters, the wizard apparently had yet to forgive himself for attacking a student. Harry didn't want to trouble the adult further.

Running his fingers back and forth over his scar, Harry thought. He could send a note to Sirius Black, his godfather, but Sirius could hardly be counted on for a quick response due to his still-fugitive status. Despite having evidence, the Wizengamot hadn't yet brought the case forward, being much more interested in putting Harry's godfather back into Azkaban first. As a result, Harry didn't hear from Sirius for weeks and weeks, and he couldn't wait that long with something this important.

There was another adult Harry could count on who he might be able to trust with knowing. More importantly, the headmaster had connections that Harry did not. Maybe the elderly wizard would be able to track down where a Muggle gardener by the name of Bryce worked and ferret out Voldemort's hiding place or at least pass the information to someone who could do the same.

Banishing his worries about bothering Professor Dumbledore, Harry pulled out a sheet of greenish-hued parchment with a silver Slytherin crest in the corner and began to write:

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Sorry to bother you, but I thought this was too important not to pass along. Twice in the past two months I've had vivid dreams where I woke up with the scar on my forehead hurting. The only time the scar ever hurts is in the presence of Voldemort, but obviously he is nowhere near or else I wouldn't be able to write this. Enclosed are the details of the dreams. I'm sorry I didn't think to write the first one down right after I had it, and that this was all I could remember.

If I'm fretting over nothing, please let me know.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

After blotting the newly written letter, Harry took up the other sheet of parchment and folded the two together; he placed them both into an envelope and wrote Professor Dumbledore's name on it. A wax disc was fished out of a small box and placed where the flap met the back of the envelope. He grabbed the metal seal that bore the Longbottom crest and tapped the imprinting side with his wand like Mrs. Longbottom had shown. He then pressed the heated metal firmly to the wax and admired the imprinted seal when he lifted it away. He set the Longbottom metal seal aside.

Just as he turned the oil lamp off due to having plenty of light in the study, Neville yawned loudly by the study door. "What'cha doing up so early, Harry?"

"Couldn't sleep," Harry lied, adjusting his body language appropriately. "Is Hedwig back yet?"

Neville blinked at him. "Yes… She was raising a fuss in the room."

Harry swiftly passed him. Hedwig was in her open cage preening. On Harry's bed was a letter. "Hedwig, this needs to be delivered to Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts as soon as possible. Can you do this for me?"

She squawked testily, but took the letter from his fingers and flew out the window before Harry said another word.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He picked up the envelope and recognized Theodore's curly scrawl of handwriting on the front. He tore it open and read:

Harry,

Da's finished the Port Key and received all the paperwork through the Ministry of Magic. Once we collect Hermione, we'll be arriving by Floo as per Mrs. Longbottom's instructions to the main drawing room at one tomorrow. The Port Key goes active at one-thirty. If we miss this, we'll miss the match between Bulgaria and Ireland, so don't drag your feet!

Cheers,

Theodore Nott

With a grin, Harry was able to shelve his worries for the time being. Tomorrow he would be watching the Quidditch World Cup and all his worries would be shown to be nothing.

"Ready to do some squats, Neville?"

"Do we have to? They make my legs hurt," his brother complained.

Harry chuckled. "You're the one who wanted to exercise with me. I was waiting for you to wake up. Now, come on. Let's get started. If we're late to breakfast, Mrs. Longbottom's going to give us an earful."

With a heavy sigh, Neville began the exercises Harry had started him on the very first day of summer break. Neville's awkwardness had yet to completely leave him as he'd hit another growth spurt. Now, he towered over Harry. In the afternoons they did Quidditch scrimmages, practicing Chaser and Keeper techniques because it was a lot more fun than enchanting a balled-up sock to be a snitch when Neville was bollocks at catching it.

Unbeknownst to the Gryffindor, his fellow housemates would likely have trouble recognizing the stocky, lean-faced teen. Harry couldn't wait to see their reactions.

The next day Harry awoke to bright cheerful sunlight. "Neville, wake up!" He clapped once, startling his brother awake. "Let's do some lunges first. And then jumps and twists. And then—"

"Haaarryyy," Neville whined as he opened a single eye to check the time. "It's not even six yet," he groaned.

"Well I thought after breakfast we'd ride our brooms around the manor, since we won't be able to this afternoon with the Quidditch World Cup and then—"

"That's right!" Neville crowed with wide-eyed excitement. "I forgot!"

Harry laughed. "Forgot? You know England hasn't hosted a World Cup since before we were born!"

Neville looked sheepish as he looked at Harry's bedhead and self-consciously brushed his light brown hair down. "Alright, let's get started then."

Three hours later, hot, sweaty and entirely exhausted, they stumbled into the dining room clutching one another as they laughed.

Mrs. Longbottom's lower lip curled. "Go get cleaned up. Hurry now!"

They did so. If they'd been at school Harry and Neville would have simply cast a Refreshening Charm on one another, but underage wizards and witches were expressly forbidden from practicing magic at home, and obviously Mrs. Longbottom didn't want to bother wasting the energy when they were perfectly capable of bathing themselves.

Breakfast as usual was a boring affair. Mrs. Longbottom talked at length about Occlumency; casual conversation was forbidden and only the best manners were allowed at the table. No bodily noises or any break in social protocol was permitted. Neville, having been raised this way since a young age, had no difficulties whatsoever. It was Harry who was often made to stand with a conjured tankard of water on his head and two buckets of water in each hand for an hour when he invariably chewed with his mouth open or belched unexpectedly during meals.

He had soon grown bored standing there at attention that he began to do different things to keep his mind engaged. First he learned how to maintain careful balance in a squat. Then he lifted a foot and held it out away from him or he kept his head upright and leaned heavily to one side or the other. It was quite the challenge not to spill a single drop. Unfortunately when he did, Mrs. Longbottom made him stand longer.

That was why Harry was very, very careful to mind his manners so that he would not lose an hour of broomstick flying with Neville.

"The appeals case for Sirius Black has just begun," Mrs. Longbottom said shrewdly to them. "Already Albus Dumbledore has provided irrefutable evidence that Peter Pettigrew is still very much alive. However, Lucius Malfoy has brought out all the old witnesses. I expect that it'll be a long, drawn-out affair."

Harry nodded acknowledging her words, but didn't say what he thought or ask any questions since she hadn't given them permission to speak. How could they even be holding a trial without Sirius Black on hand?

"When his Judgment of Absolution comes, Black will likely file a motion to adopt you, dear," Mrs. Longbottom said severely, ignoring Harry's unasked question. "My lawyers are prepared to fight for joint custody."

Why did she think that Black was innocent? Had she seen the proof in Harry's mind when he thought of his godfather? Why would Mrs. Longbottom want to have joint custody? Biting the inside of his cheek before he asked any of the questions dying to slip out of his mouth, Harry nodded slightly again. He continued to eat in the most polite manner he'd ever managed in his entire life.

"Sirius Black has no children of his own to pass the Black inheritance to, so his godson would be his next best option. The state of his mind after spending twelve years in Azkaban will likely be unsuitable to raise you." She primly wiped her lips and set her napkin down. That was the sign for the two boys to stop eating. "Well, I've enjoyed this, dears. Be ready for lunch to be served at noon." The moment she stood, Neville and Harry also stood.

"We await our next meal with you, milady," Harry said softly in a gentleman's voice, no matter how ridiculous he thought he sounded.

Mrs. Longbottom nodded and then exited the room as the clock struck ten.

Once she had gone, Harry sighed and flopped back into his chair without caring about his posture. He took his bowl and began to slurp the creamy porridge down without the spoon. Eating so slowly always left him ravenous!

"Good going, Harry. That's the first time Gran's not given you the buckets."

Finishing off the porridge, Harry grabbed three pieces of toast and chomped then down. After that, he began to suck down sweet segments of mandarin oranges directly from the center dish. Then he took a great swig of water to wash it all down. "We don't have tutoring today. Ready to fly more?"

"Yeah!"

"Race you out!" Harry was up in a flash, bolting out the door. Neville laughed, chasing after him. They sprang out the front door, scooping up the Cleansweep 5 brooms—Harry grabbed the worn-out Quaffle too—and hopped up into the air on the borrowed broom. Neville hovered above the three hedges that were considered to be the goal posts.

"Ready?" Harry called out.

"Ready!" Neville said excitedly.

Harry pushed the old broom to its limit, darting around the Longbottom Manor at a rather leisure pace. Immediately he swung himself upside-down as if a Bludger had nearly sailed right into him.

"Sloth Grip Roll!" Neville cried out eagerly from his Keeper Position.

Now, Harry zigzagged across the lawn in unpredictable patterns, imagining that he was dodging opponents.

"Wollongong Shimmy!" Neville called out.

Harry raced forward and darted up; Neville hovered right over the top of the hedge and smacked the ball back.

"That's a foul, Neville!" Harry caught the ball easily. "You can't sit inside the hoop to prevent a goal; it's called flacking!"

"Oh, sorry. You get a penalty then."

Harry flew to the center of the lawn and spun the broom around, gaining momentum. Braking suddenly, he released the ball and then Neville executed a beautiful Starfish and Stick, kicking the Quaffle back at him. "Nice work!" Harry yelled excitedly at him.

"You think so?" Neville said, still hanging by a hand and a hooked foot over the old broom as if he'd been born on the Cleansweep.

Harry rushed into the scoring area, while Neville hung from his broom and shot the Quaffle over the rightmost hedge. "You just lost ten points to the other team."

Neville swung his body around and re-mounted his broom. "That was hardly sporting, Harry," he said petulantly.

"Oh, I'm much nicer than anybody else you're likely to play."

They switched places and it was Harry's turn to block while Neville zigzagged and rolled on his broom. He was never far off the ground, only ten feet or so, but it was a marked improvement to when their feet were barely clearing stalks of grass. As soon as Neville's confidence improved, his shakes and tremors had stopped.

Harry thought the Starfish and Stick technique was rather slow and had been trying a vertical variation that wouldn't require one's broom to remain horizontal. He found it quite difficult since the broom desperately wanted to shoot straight up when pointed in that direction and the last thing Harry wanted was to perform a Starfish without Stick. He'd read about Keepers suffering awful injuries from the fall. He, however, was beginning to believe that the broom was charmed to fly 'up' when pointed in that direction.

They switched positions several more times before Dobby appeared below them.

"Masters Harry and Neville! Din-din's almost ready. Dobby is to tell the young Masters that the Mistress requires that Masters are freshened up and clothes changed. Dobby put out Muggle dress robes in the Masters' bedroom." With a happy smile, Dobby bowed and disappeared with a snap.

Giving each other a look, the brothers ran to the front door and dropped the brooms and Quaffle on the stone steps outside. Stomping upstairs, they quickly took turns showering.

When Harry left the bathroom, Neville's hands were nearly bound up in the long, reddish-gold Muggle tie. Harry went over to help him with it, since Mrs. Longbottom had only showed them how to tie it once. Neville was absolute bollocks at anything unless he'd practiced it fifty times.

Harry looped it over, under, and through, tightening it. "There," Harry said, patting Neville's tie into his waistcoat. Then Harry began to pull on and button up his own crisp, long-sleeved shirt while Neville combed his hair and snapped cufflinks on.

Neville looked at the clock anxiously. "Harry—"

"I've got it, Neville." His brother would just slow him down. Harry finished tying his green necktie and clipped it to the shirt beneath. He was slipping the buttons through the holes on his waistcoat in a relaxed, but quick manner. He turned to grab the outer robes, but saw that Neville was holding them up with a wry grin. Uncomplaining, Harry slipped his arms through.

They were dressed in a matching set of velvet tuxedo-like robes. Harry's was deep forest green, while Neville's was the color of burgundy wine. The only stylistic difference that Harry could see between them was that Neville's had a high collar on his jacket like a vicar's. A silk waistcoat and an old-fashioned long-sleeved white shirt beneath it nicely complemented the jacket and trousers. Without any frills, the sleeves of the jacket were actually fitted into cuffs, but the coat-tails hung down to the backs of their knees. Harry wondered why Dobby had called them Muggle dress robes.

"We're supposed to wear this to the match?" It seemed odd that they weren't dressed casually.

"Muggle clothing is very odd. Not very exciting," Neville said as he looked over Harry's shoulder at the mirror. Harry gave Neville's reflection a puzzled look.

"But you look good in anything," Neville's mirror self said.

Neville grinned at himself.

Taking the comb Neville held out, Harry combed his hair down as much as it would allow. Neville clipped the cufflinks on the cuff surrounding Harry's free hand, and Harry switched hands so Neville could do the other while the Boy-Who-Lived painstakingly attempted to part his hair in a manner that would be met with Mrs. Longbottom's approval.

The Matriarch had once made him put Stiffening gel in his hair to keep it flat, but his hair had spiked itself upright during lunch months ago and flung a gob of hair gel into a tureen of clam bisque. Ever since, Harry was told to comb it and nothing else.

"You look amazing, sir," Harry's mirror image said when Harry peered closer at his hair. Harry dropped the comb onto the vanity, fiddling with the cuffs to make them more comfortable. "Thanks."

Above the door of their room, a cuckoo clock flung its doors open; the small, wooden yellow finch perched on its stand wheezed airily, "You'll be late if you don't hurry downstairs."

Without comment, they jogged down the hallway and stopped short of the stairwell. They each adjusted their jackets and double-checked the cuff links at their sleeves. Neville, being old-hat at this, strolled down the stairs in his most regal manner.

"Master Neville Lawrence Longbottom, only Heir to the illustrious Longbottom family, enters the dining room, milady," Dobby announced loftily.

"Good afternoon, Grandmother," Neville said, executing a perfect courtly bow. He took a seat.

Harry took a deep breath, hoping he didn't blow this. Chin up, head and shoulders back, he slid his hand down the bannister, doing his best to move in an elegant manner.

"Master Harry James Potter, Blood-Ward of the Longbottoms and last Scion of the eminent Potter family, enters the dining room, milady."

Harry was careful to keep his lips in a pleasant smile, not too broad, but not too pursed. He bowed, taking up the Matriarch's bejeweled hand, and dropped a light kiss, neither short nor sloppy, on her first knuckle. "An honor, my lady."

She nodded in approval and Harry very carefully released her hand, bowing once more. He sat down at the seat across from Neville.

Mrs. Longbottom cleared her throat, and Harry immediately corrected his posture without the noisy, impolite sigh that always agitated the woman. "Very good, gentlemen. Right on time," she said just as the nearest clock struck twelve.

Immediately their plates filled with a delicious appetizer, and they began their entirely too-tedious meal.

By the end of it, Harry wished he could cast a Cooling Charm on himself. The velvet suit was much too warm for his general comfort. On the other hand, focusing on his discomfort was the only reason why he'd been able to deal with Mrs. Longbottom's prattling about the illustrious lineage of the Notts. Apparently creating a guide on Dark Creatures was not the only reason why they were infamous. A wizard by the name of Cantankerous Nott had meticulously ferreted out the pedigrees of many upstanding Wizarding families. The Potters were among those families kicked out from the many circles of Wizarding high society simply for having lineage that wasn't 'pure'. What was left was twenty-eight families, known as the Sacred Twenty-Eight—the term Sally-Anne had used with Harry only a few months ago. The Longbottoms were one of them.

"An excellent meal, Grandmother," Neville said without sounding like he was mocking her.

"Yes, it was." She placed the napkin down, and they stood up simultaneously. "Our guests will be arriving shortly. Escort me, Neville."

"As you wish, Grandmother." Neville walked around the table and offered an arm to her. The aged woman gently laid her arm atop his, and they walked to the drawing room together. Mourning that he wouldn't be able to tuck in more food, Harry grabbed a couple of rolls and stuck them in a pocket. Behind the two, Harry was careful not to step on the train of Mrs. Longbottom's luxurious, golden-yellow silk dress. It had fleur-de-lis embroidered with gold-thread into every inch of it; actual gold-hued peacock feathers rimmed the high collar of her long-sleeved dress. It was no longer looking as moth-eaten and faded as it once had when Harry had first seen her wear it last year. He suspected that Dobby had something to do with it.

Neville helped his grandmother sit down on a sitting couch, and then the two fourteen-year-olds sat down on either side of her behind the small, round table in the drawing room. Ever since Dobby had come to Longbottom Manor, every room in the place had been cleaned and aired out regularly, injecting life into what might have otherwise been a drab and dreary place.

Back straight and head up, Harry kept his eyes on the fireplace where a fire was merrily burning away several logs. He'd only ever seen Floo magic in action once and that was last year...

"Be gentle with these suits, dears. You will need them later in the year," Mrs. Longbottom said with a stern tone.

"May I ask what event we will be attending, Grandmother?" Neville always managed to speak politely without sounding rude. It was probably why Harry hadn't been allowed to ask questions.

"That is not for me to tell you," she said and then opened her fan agitatedly in her hand.

The Notts were a minute away from being late, and the worse thing to do was keep Mrs. Longbottom waiting.

The clock chimed, and Mrs. Longbottom slammed her fan shut. "How inconsiderate—"

Suddenly, green fire burst out from the fireplace, causing Harry to jerk back in surprise. In the flame's wake, four soot-covered figures stood: Mr. Nott, Lupin, Theodore, and Hermione. Mr. Nott took out a wand and waved it over the four of them, and they were instantly shades lighter. Resembling bodyguards the Notts were dressed in black Muggle suits, while Lupin was wearing his usual dull-colored and shabby Muggle suit. Harry's ex-professor looked healthier; his once-pale skin now sported a dark tan and he looked at ease. The cheerful Theodore had bulked up some, looking a bit less stringy.

Hermione was wearing an airy, lilac dress that hung down to her knees and a tiny trinket on the end of a silver chain about her neck. Her bushy hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail. Her features had softened further over the summer. She looked very pleased to be there, though her eyes were scanning the room with intense curiosity. She sent Harry a small smile, whereas Theodore didn't even look at Harry as he smiled fondly at Mrs. Longbottom.

"Augusta," the old, grandfatherly man said, "I terribly regret our tardiness. We were delayed by Ministry officials due to their suspicion of one of our party." Mr. Nott's eyes drifted purposefully towards Lupin, whose shoulders hunched inwardly some, before Theodore sharply jabbed a spot in his lower back. No longer hunched, the older werewolf gave him an unamused frown.

"It's ridiculous," Hermione said loftily, "to delay us because Mr. Lupin's a registered werewolf. I think—" She cut her angry rant off when Theodore nudged her with a gentle elbow. She immediately went silent, looking at the floor and twisting her fingers together.

"I think it's good they hadn't delayed us longer than they had," Theodore said with a catty grin. "Don't you, Mrs. Longbottom?"

The moment Neville's grandmother stood up, Harry and Neville stood up as well. The three wizards bowed deeply towards the Longbottom Matriarch, while Hermione curtsied effortlessly.

"Yes, I imagine with the Quidditch World Cup, security is much tighter," Mrs. Longbottom finally said and their guests straightened. "I extend a proud welcome to our humble manor, Prah, and to your son and guests as well." Closed fan in hand, she curtsied in a very dignified manner. Harry hurriedly bowed when he saw Neville lean forward.

Theodore barely muffled a snicker. Harry shot him a glare. Hermione's eyes were darting between them but she didn't say anything. Neville managed the best bow between them. As soon as Neville straightened, Harry did as well.

"Thank you for the welcome, milady," Lupin said graciously.

Mrs. Longbottom sniffed in response, snapping her fan open to flap it in her face.

"Milady, I have said before that I much prefer my middle name," Mr. Nott said, drawing Neville's grandmother from her long stare at Lupin.

"Of course. I'd forgotten your preference, Bailey."

"Shall we head outside…?" The grey-haired man asked softly.

"Yes, that would please me."

The old witch offered her arm to Mr. Nott and was escorted out the room. At his grandmother's pointed look when she passed, Neville offered an arm to Hermione, who hesitantly placed her arm on top of his. The four swept out the room as if it had been staged.

Theodore gave Harry a look-over. "How long have you been prancing around like that?"

Harry rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. He was smart enough to keep his manners about him with Mrs. Longbottom's abnormally sharp ears.

"He looks nice," Lupin commented.

The younger werewolf laughed. "I bet that suit chafes. Doesn't it, Harry?"

With a mischievous look, Harry bowed in a courtly manner and then offered an arm. "Do you need an escort, milord?"

Playing along, Theodore covered his mouth and tittered. "Oh, yes, Mr. Potter." Then, despite the fact Harry sent him a short-lived glare, his friend delicately placed his arm atop Harry's.

"You were supposed to laugh, not agree to be escorted," Harry hissed under his breath.

Theodore laughed politely against the back of his hand. "You've certainly learned how to be a gentleman under Mrs. Longbottom's guidance," he said with a lofty tone.

Their ex-DADA professor cleared his throat in a hurried manner, looking about the richly decorated living room. "As amusing as your antics are, Harry, I doubt you'd want to walk out like that."

"Oh pishposh! Let him have fun, Uncle Remy," Theodore said, allowing himself to be led after masterfully turning Harry toward the door.

With deliberately orchestrated steps of elegance, Harry glided them out of the room and towards the open front door, holding Theodore's arm up as if he were a lady.

"What precisely are you doing?" The Matriarch said archly when Harry and Theodore came down the front steps. Her eyes, normally sharp and unreadable, sparkled with barely contained humor.

Amusement was the last thing Harry had expected. "My Lady, I merely performed my gentlemanly duty as escort." His lips quirked as Theodore drew his hand away.

"Smooth," Theodore said under his breath without moving his lips and then pulled away, stepping towards the two adults. He brought his hands up, clasping them together in an imploring manner. "I apologize that I have taken such bold liberties with the newest member to your family, milady. I was overcome with excitement to be here visiting a very close friend I have not seen since the end of school term."

Harry bit down on his inner cheek as laughter bubbled up from his chest from Theodore's dramatics. Neville was gaping at the both of them with what looked like shock. Hermione's eyebrows had lifted to the middle of her forehead, while her face scrunched into a confused look.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Longbottom lifted an eyebrow at the old wizard, who showed no particular interest in his son's antics. "Make sure you are not… overcome again, young Nott. There is a measure of decorum that must be maintained out in public," Mrs. Longbottom said. She turned to Nott's da, "We should move along before it gets much later."

From a small black pouch, Mr. Nott withdrew a long pewter gray shower rod. He lifted an arm to check the time using a Muggle timepiece strapped to his wrist. "Come around everyone. It will activate shortly."

The three adults and four teenagers converged around the Nott Patriarch. Everyone leaned forward to grab a bit of the shower rod. In moments, a hook took hold of Harry by the navel and all seven of them were spinning around in a swirl of color.