Reading my Albus Potter series is not necessary to read this story. Have fun!

Neville Longbottom's fingernails were remarkably clean. He'd been nervously picking around under them all day. He also hadn't had any time to pursue his favorite hobby, which usually dirtied his hands; he'd been too busy imagining those same fingernails clawing out Snape's eyes, or digging into the man's throat as Neville strangled him.

There he was now: Severus Snape, sitting in the chair of the man he murdered. Neville's clean fingernails raked the Gryffindor table; he let out an angry snort from his nostrils.

Snape was glancing his way now, giving his characteristic glare. Of course, he knew that Neville had led Dumbledore's Army. He probably thought Dumbledore's Army was done, now, didn't he? Now that their figurehead was gone?

But Dumbledore isn't gone. Not as long as those who remain are loyal to him. Neville returned the glare, and added the raise of a challenging eyebrow.

Snape recoiled ever so slightly, but it was still noticeable. Evidently he wasn't used to retaliation from this victim of his venom, even just in gestures. But Neville had come a long way from the day that boggart took the form of his least favorite teacher. And by the time he was done here, Snape would be wishing he was dressed in Augusta Longbottom's clothing in a heavily populated classroom rather than remaining as Headmaster here.

The silence was finally broken; the Hat had begun to sing. And the more Neville listened, the further those fingernails dug into the table—he didn't know how much the hat knew about him from those few minutes it had been on his head, but he felt like the song was meant for him… and perhaps for him alone.

For many men, when peril looms

And death knocks at their door,

They realize that they have to fight;

Then comes the time for war.

They should have taken action

When the beast was still at bay.

But running into fights

Can be as bad as running away.

The proud and prudent warrior

Will win ere battles start.

And the winner need not simply strike

Into their enemy's heart.

There are more ways to cripple foes;

do that which risks the least.

A thousand tiny wounds

Will surely fell the foulest beast.

And if you go for killing strikes

When foes are at full health,

You'll find your power is outdone

By any form of stealth.

Bravery means fighting back

By finding strength within,

But not right as the fight begins—

Use cunning and wit to win.

Your strengths are as I sort,

But your advantage is in groups.

When those with different strengths unite,

There are no greater troops.

Stand up for one another.

If you look out for none,

You'll be alone quite quickly

If the rest fall one by one.

But hold back with each other

Till the time is right to clash,

And mountains will be moved;

The phoenix rises from the ash.

The Hall was silent. Nobody clapped. It might have had something to do with the look that Snape was giving the hat.

"That had pretty much nothing to do with Sorting," said Seamus, looking over at Neville.

"It was brilliant," breathed Neville, awestruck by the beauty of the song, and by the audacity of the hat to sing such words.

The Sorting Hat knew its part—to incite those who would listen. Neville would play his part, too.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward with the Sorting Hat. She unrolled a scroll of parchment and her eye twitched as she heard Snape stand up behind her.

"When your name is called, you will come up to be Sorted," said "Headmaster" Snape. "You may begin now, Minerva."

Professor McGonagall shot a crippling look towards Snape through the back of her head, and despite the fact that she still had her back to him, he seemed to withdraw slightly anyway, as if he could tell how much hatred was radiating from her gaze. That gaze said all sorts of things that Neville wished were being screamed: " "Thank you for stating the obvious," and "How dare you stand in front of this school," and "By the end of the year, I swear, I shall be the reason you are gone from this castle."

The scroll with the names of the first years was unrolled.

"Aarons, Kristopher!" called Professor McGonagall, and the tiny little first year jogged up to the stool.

"GRYFFINDOR!" shouted the Sorting Hat.

Neville recalled the day when he'd heard that shout, and it was meant for him. He'd always wondered how he could ever live up to the noble House's reputation.

Well, it was like the Hat had said—he didn't have to be the strongest, or the most powerful. He just had to know what to do, and when to do it. And that was something he'd been learning all his life from his friends in Gryffindor. The Hat had placed him just where he belonged.

His fingers closed around the fake Galleon, still in his pocket. Snape looked over at him and sneered. Neville returned him a sly smile.

Voldemort had made his move through Snape becoming Headmaster. Now it was time to strike back. Dumbledore's Army would rise from the ash. They would hold back until all the right times to strike; they would draw blood from a thousand wounds, and their enemy would fall.

He winked at the Sorting Hat, and if the hat had eyes, he was sure it would have winked back.

He was a true Gryffindor.