The world went upside-down. Propelled forward by a tremendous wave of force, Harry smashed into Cho, heard her cry out before the roaring sound blocked everything else out. But he'd protected her from the impact of the blast and got it full in the back himself, protected by the spell's buffer and getting the oddest feeling of deja vu, right before he went spinning down into the ground.

He felt Severus' spell clinging to him as desperately as any embrace, keeping him on the broom, causing him to bounce gently when he hit the earth, instead of smash into a mess of blood and bone as he'd expected. He spared a moment to be thankful he was alive, and then looked up, to see the blackened, twisted shards of the exploded Snitch gently tinkling down onto the turf several meters away. Cho was touching down to the ground from her broom, looking pale and shaken, a little bruised but otherwise unhurt. The other players were rapidly descending from the sky, and Madam Hooch was running out onto the field as fast as her legs could carry her, blowing on her whistle with every breath.

The stadium was pandemonium. Harry heard Professor McGonagall wrenching the megaphone from Colin Creevey and barking orders into it that all the students were to return to their dormitories immediately under care of the prefects. Then Harry was surrounded by a human wall, and couldn't hear anything besides the concerned babble of his team-mates. Amongst the bright red-and-gold Gryffindor robes he saw several Ravenclaw robes as well, and then he heard Cho's voice at his ear.

"Are you all right, Harry?" she gasped. "You saved my life! You took that blast -- I can't believe it, you don't even look bruised -- "

Madam Hooch broke through the crowd. "Potter! I don't believe it!" she cried, looking so relieved that Harry was afraid she'd start weeping. "To the hospital wing, at once -- "

"I'm fine," Harry said, getting to his feet shakily. "Honestly, I am…"

"My God, that Snitch…I can't believe it…" Madam Hooch said, "blown to little bits -- go on, you lot, off the field and back to the school, we need to do a thorough check of the pitch -- don't argue with me, Potter, you're for the hospital wing, and make no mistake."

Harry met Ron and Hermione at the edge of the pitch, who had ignored the injunction to return to the dormitories and insisted on escorting him to the hospital wing, along with the entirety of the Gryffindor team. He looked around, trying to find Severus, but could get no glimpse of him in the milling chaos. Cho returned to her dorm with the other Ravenclaws, but not after earnestly thanking Harry once again, tears shining in her eyes. Harry supposed things were all right between them now, but couldn't really spare a thought for it, as Madam Pomfrey insisted on poking and prodding him thoroughly before pronouncing him fit to leave.

"You must be the luckiest young man alive, Mr. Potter, and that's a fact," she said. Then she sniffled. Ron was looking very pale, and Hermione's eyes were also a little over-bright.

"I can't believe you didn't get hurt," Ron said for what seemed like the hundredth time. "We should check for curses…maybe you got hit with something we didn't see…"

"I believe," said a quiet voice from beyond the crowd surrounding Harry's bed, "that Mr. Potter will be just fine."

All heads turned to regard Professor Dumbledore, who was standing with his hands folded and looking very solemn indeed. "Madam Pomfrey," Dumbledore continued, "if you are quite finished with Harry, I am afraid I need to borrow him."

"Well -- I suppose so, Headmaster, but the boy's had a nasty shock -- "

"As have we all," Dumbledore said. "I'm sorry, Poppy, but I must insist." The expression on Dumbledore's face made Harry's insides clench uncomfortably. It looked a little tired, and very sad. He knew without asking that something bad had happened -- something worse than an exploding Snitch.

Everybody else seemed to realise it too, because the crowd parted and let him leave the hospital bed without a protest. Ron awkwardly patted his shoulder and Hermione squeezed his hand, both of them giving him concerned looks as he was led away.

"I have spoken with Madam Hooch, Harry," Dumbledore said heavily as he and Harry ascended the stone staircase that led to his office. "She has confirmed that one person would have had the opportunity to tamper with the equipment before the match. He has confessed."

"He?" Harry asked as they entered the office. "Who -- " Then he stopped, stunned.

Neville Longbottom was sitting in one of the chairs in front of Dumbledore's desk, head bowed. Professor McGonagall stood staring down at him, hands clasped together so hard that the bone showed through the skin, her face a mask of disbelief. Madam Hooch stood in the corner with her arms folded, shaking her head sadly.

"Neville," Harry whispered, feeling the betrayal hit him like a blow to the gut. Even after their confrontation in the corridor, this still came as a shock; he knew Neville was angry, and he didn't entirely trust him, but he'd never thought for one moment Neville would try anything like this…

"There has to be a mistake," Harry said blankly. Neville twitched at the sound of his voice, but didn't look up. "There has to be," Harry repeated more loudly, but Dumbledore only shook his head.

"Mr. Longbottom," McGonagall said tightly, "I think you should at least do your intended victim the courtesy of looking him in the face."

"Minerva," Dumbledore began, but Neville looked up slowly at Harry. His face was bright red, and his lips were clamped together and trembling. Harry had expected him to be crying, or apologising, or something…Neville-ish. But his pale grey eyes were burning with anger, and he didn't look sorry; in fact, he looked like he wanted nothing so much as a second chance to kill Harry. He didn't appear quite sane.

Dumbledore sat down at his desk, gesturing for Harry to sit as well; Harry remained standing frozen in the doorway. Dumbledore didn't appear to mind. "Neville," he said, "tell us why you have done this."

Neville returned to staring at his lap and shook his head violently. "I won't," he managed, his voice sounding thin and choked.

"Oh, yes, you will -- " McGonagall began furiously, but Dumbledore held up a hand for silence.

"Madam Hooch?" he asked. "If you will repeat for Harry what you have told me?"

Madam Hooch tightened her lips before replying, "I left the door to my office unlocked -- where I keep the balls for the matches. I saw Longbottom leaving my office a few minutes before the match started, but he said the stairways had changed and he'd only got lost in the hallways again, and hadn't meant to go into my office at all. Since this happens to him every week in some form or fashion, I didn't think much of it, and when I saw the equipment box was still padlocked I thought nothing about it at all. But it's easy to spell padlocks and then shut them again -- I should have checked -- but I never would have dreamed, Headmaster, I'm so sorry -- "

"None of us foresaw this, Rolanda," Dumbledore said gently. "And Harry, thank goodness, is unharmed, as are all the other students."

"How is that possible, Albus?" McGonagall burst out. "I saw that blast hit the boy, and by rights it ought to have blown him to pieces! He didn't even fall off his broom!"

"Harry has always been extraordinarily lucky," Dumbledore replied calmly. "I believe that the enchantments put on his broom must also have had something to do with it." Harry's heart skipped a beat, before he realised Dumbledore was referring to the spells he and Madam Hooch had put on the Firebolt themselves.

McGonagall, looking doubtful, subsided. Then she looked at Neville again, and her hands clenched back into fists; for a wild moment, Harry wondered if she were about to strike Neville, and he heard himself speaking.

"It was Malfoy, Professor," he said pleadingly to Dumbledore before he'd even thought about it. "I'm sure of it! He put Neville up to this!"

The three teachers stared at Harry. "Draco Malfoy?" Dumbledore asked. "Why do you say this, Harry?"

"Because -- because," Harry fumbled, "they've, they've been friends this year, and…and Neville just wouldn't have done this on his own, I know he wouldn't have, sir -- "

"I would," Neville said softly, looking at his hands again. "I did. Draco never knew anything about it."

"Neville," Harry said weakly, "you don't have to protect him -- "

"I did it on my own!" Neville shouted, staring up at Harry, eyes bugging out of his red face. McGonagall's hand twitched towards her wand, but Dumbledore held her back. "I'm not so stupid I can't figure out how to do a detonation spell! They're easy! Almost as easy as Herbology! Or Potions, Harry, they're almost as easy as POTIONS!"

Dumbledore rose from his chair. "Mr. Longbottom, that is enough," he said in a deadly calm voice. "We will discuss this alone, I think. Minerva, do you mind?"

"No, Headmaster," McGonagall whispered, staring at Neville, looking as if she didn't know whether to yell or cry.

"Thank you. I will notify you when we are finished, and will likely summon Harry again. Madam Hooch, will you go and assist Professors Flitwick and Snape in checking the Quidditch pitch for any other stray spells? Mr. Longbottom has assured me there are none, but I would prefer to be sure."

"Of course," Madam Hooch said. "I…again, I'm so sorry, Headmaster…"

"It isn't your fault, Rolanda."

"Isn't it?" Madam Hooch asked, and left. Harry followed Professor McGonagall out, feeling as if this was all a bad dream. Had Neville really tried to kill him? Had Harry really made him that angry? Or that scared?

He shivered with dread. Neville was probably going to tell Dumbledore everything. About Draco, about Harry's threat -- what would Dumbledore think, what would he do?

He almost bumped right into McGonagall when she stopped dead in the hallway. He looked at her face, and saw that tears were running down her cheeks.

He reached into the inner pocket of his Quidditch robe, and hesitantly offered her a handkerchief. Thankfully it was clean. "Thank, you, Potter," she sobbed, and blew her nose. "Our own house -- Mr. Longbottom -- I can't believe it -- "

"Me neither," Harry said quietly.

"Do you have any idea why, Potter? Did you argue with Longbottom? Or -- no, no, I just can't believe it. You've been so good to him this term. I believe you even tutored him for a while?" She swallowed harshly.

So did Harry. "Yeah." Maybe if he hadn't got so wrapped up in his own problems, maybe if he'd just paid more attention to what Neville was doing -- but nobody else had either. When did anybody pay attention to Neville? But if he'd only noticed…this might not have happened…

He looked into McGonagall's face, and realised that whatever he was feeling, she had to be feeling it worse. She was Head of House, after all, and Neville was under her care. "He didn't tell anyone," he blurted, wanting to absolve them both. "Nobody knew this was going to happen. Nobody even suspected!"

She didn't look consoled, and frankly, Harry didn't feel much better himself. He would always wonder if there was something he could have done differently. He supposed she would, too.

Just then, his gloomy train of thought was interrupted by the clicking sound of footsteps coming up very quickly behind them. They turned, and Harry saw Severus bearing down on them both, black robes billowing like bats' wings, eyes wild and face pale. His gaze was fixed unswervingly on Harry's face.

"Professor Snape," McGonagall said sharply, quickly using Harry's handkerchief to dab at her damp cheeks and obviously trying very hard to look unruffled.

Severus didn't appear to notice, though; or if he did, he made no comment. "I've come to see the headmaster," he said almost absently, turning to look at McGonagall, although he kept darting glances at Harry. "We've checked the pitch."

There was a pause as he looked at Harry again.

"And?" McGonagall asked impatiently.

Severus started a little, and said, "We found no other sign of danger. The…the Snitch appears to have been the lone…element." His throat worked.

"Well, that's something, at least," McGonagall said faintly. Her eyes were looking damp again, and she dabbed at them once more with the handkerchief. Severus took another long look at Harry, colour finally starting to come back in his cheeks, although the look in his eyes was still desperate -- to Harry, at least, who knew the signs.

Harry wished with all his heart that McGonagall were somewhere else, that he and Severus were safely hidden away in the dungeon bedroom. He longed to throw his arms around Severus, and press his head to the black-clad chest, breathe deeply, feel both their hearts beating.

Severus' spell had saved his life, without question. Harry wanted to thank him properly. After a scare like that, they could both do with a bit of proper thanking, he suspected.

But they weren't alone, of course. McGonagall's waspish voice broke their mutual gaze. "As you can clearly see, Professor Snape," she said irascibly, "Mr. Potter has obviously survived the unfortunate incident in fine form." Her tone implied she expected Severus to be disappointed by that.

Severus' eyes flashed furiously at her, which no doubt served to bear out her suspicions, although Harry knew it meant something quite different. "Professor Dumbledore said it was probably the spells on my broom that saved me," he said quietly, still looking at Severus. McGonagall looked at him in surprise, but Harry carefully kept his face blank.

Severus merely sneered at him -- though Harry could see a deeper feeling still raging in his eyes -- and moved towards the gargoyle that marked the entrance to Dumbledore's office.

"The headmaster is busy, Severus," McGonagall said quickly, one hand clenching tightly onto Harry's handkerchief. "He has given orders not to be disturbed."

"What?" Severus asked incredulously. "Now? Doesn't he -- " he stopped, and his eyes narrowed. "Have you found out who did it?"

"That is for the headmaster to decide," McGonagall said, her voice nearly steady.

"Who?" Severus asked, very quietly and very evenly.

"Go to my office, Potter," McGonagall said, never taking her eyes off Severus, her expression flushed and agitated. "I'll be along shortly. The password is 'flora'."

Harry looked back and forth between the two teachers, nodded, and backed away until he was looking over McGonagall's shoulder at Severus. He summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile and mouthed the words, "Thank you" before turning round and heading for McGonagall's office.

The office was near the foot of the stairs leading up to Gryffindor Tower. Listening, Harry could hear the sounds of wild commotion upstairs, hundreds of voices clamouring over the afternoon's events. He shuddered, gave the password, and slipped gladly into the empty office, closing the door firmly behind him.

McGonagall's office, as he might have suspected, was rigidly organised and neat as a pin. Not a book or sheaf of paper was out of place. There were no fewer than four clocks, one of which told the positions of the other staff members. Harry's heart gave a nasty thump at that one, until his commonsense reminded him that there obviously couldn't be a setting for "In bed with a student" or he and Severus would have caught it by now. Two of the clocks told regular time, one facing either end of the office, and the fourth clock, on McGonagall's desk, appeared to be some kind of personal calendar. Currently, as Harry craned across the desk to get a good look, it read, "Time to have a row with Severus Snape." He winced.

Looking around the room he saw a Gryffindor banner draped over the fireplace mantel, an enormous, airy window from which he could distantly see the Quidditch pitch (Madam Hooch had apparently returned and was swooping around on her broom), and, perhaps most surprisingly, a large bouquet of fresh pink roses in a lovely china vase on the windowsill. The fading sun shone down through their petals, turning each one into a small, translucent cell of light.

There was a noise at the door, and he faintly heard a woman's voice say the password. Harry quickly sat down in one of the stiff-backed chairs facing the desk, but it wasn't McGonagall; it was Professor Delacour.

"Minerva?" Delacour asked softly as she slowly opened the door. "Are you 'ere? Everyone is talking, I came to see if you -- " she saw Harry sitting by himself in the chair, and stopped. "Mr. Potter!" she exclaimed, sounding disconcerted. "But where is Professair McGonagall?"

"Um, she's on her way, Professor," Harry said. "She's talking to Professor Snape, I think."

"Oh. Well, zen." To Harry's surprise, Delacour did not leave, but came in and began fussing around with the tea caddy in the corner as if she owned the place. "I will just wait…I 'eard you 'ad quite ze narrow escape today! I could not be at ze match, alas, I was marking ze essays for ze first years. They are trés horrible! But soon zere was a shouting, and everyone coming in, all so excited and talking of nuzzing but your, 'ow you say, near miss."

"Yeah," Harry said, looking at his hands in his lap. "It was really lucky." Great, everyone talking about him again, just what he needed…

A slim white hand appeared in front of him, bearing a delicate china cup and saucer. "You could do wiz somezing nice and 'ot, I think," Delacour said comfortingly. "Zis weathair! I still cannot believe you call it spring. 'Ow cold I was all winter! I remember zat clearly enough from ze Tournament!" Her laugh danced gently on the air. "But Minerva always keeps a pot of zis 'orrible strong tea. I believe it 'elps."

"Thanks," Harry mumbled, and sipped gingerly. It was indeed very strong, unsweetened black tea. Dumbledore must have finally ordered something other than the mint infusion Severus liked. He much preferred the mint, he decided, but he didn't want to seem impolite.

Delacour sat in the chair next to his own, sipping from her own cup. "But you are quite all right, of course?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, thanks."

Delacour opened her mouth to say something else, but just then the office door banged open and McGonagall stormed in, her face as red as a tomato, her mouth puckered in fury. Harry would very much have liked a look at her personal clock at that moment. He wondered what she and Severus had said to each other, but suspected he'd never find out. She wasn't likely to tell him, and Severus never talked about the other teachers.

Delacour rose. "Min -- Professair McGonagall," she said, her silvery voice sounding concerned. McGonagall stopped dead in her tracks and stared at Delacour blankly, as if not quite registering the fact that she was there. "I 'ave just come to see 'ow -- Mr. Potter and I 'ave been 'aving a cup of tea." Delacour seemed quite uncharacteristically uncertain. Harry watched them both, fascinated. "Is zere anyzing I can do to 'elp?"

Harry was nearly sure McGonagall would toss Delacour out on her ear, with the mood she seemed to be in, but she merely said, "If you would go up to Gryffindor Tower, Professor Delacour, and calm the students. The last thing I need is for them to tear this castle down around our ears, and I could hear them all the way down the corridor. I daresay the prefects are as useless as the rest of them at this point." Harry didn't think Hermione would have appreciated hearing that very much. "If you would, please," McGonagall continued, taking a deep, shuddering breath and visibly calming herself, "tell them the perpetrator of this dreadful…prank…has been caught and that they will certainly mind themselves if they do not actually wish to see Gryffindor driven into negative points for the first time in Hogwarts' history. I will address them personally as soon as Mr. Potter and I have finished here."

Harry blinked. He hadn't even thought about that -- how many points Gryffindor would lose after one of its members attempted murder. All of them, presumably. It was hard for him to care very much about that right at the moment, though. No Quidditch Cup, no House Cup, but what did it matter when he'd nearly been killed and Neville had clearly gone completely round the twist?

Delacour nodded. "If you find ze time," she said gently to McGonagall, "please do stop by my rooms for a cup of tea tonight, Professair. I am sure you will 'ave need of it."

"Perhaps I will," McGonagall said, an odd expression on her face: now it was she who appeared uncertain.

The door closed softly behind Delacour. McGonagall appeared to shake herself out of her daze and turned to look at Harry. "Thank you for waiting, Mr. Potter," she said. "I am sure your friends are anxious to see you, but I thought you might want to use my fireplace to contact your godfather at the Ministry. I'm sure he'd rather learn what happened from you rather than read it in the Daily Prophet."

"Oh, yeah," Harry said gratefully. He hadn't thought about Sirius either, to his shame. Well, he hadn't exactly had a chance to think about much of anything. It was all happening so fast. "Thanks, Professor."

McGonagall nodded and took a delicate blue porcelain pot down from the mantel. As she took a handful of powder from within, Harry asked hesitantly, "Er..did you have to tell Professor Snape about Neville, Professor?"

McGonagall paused mid-motion with her handful of powder, and she looked as if she was about to cry again. Harry felt rather sorry for asking. "I didn't have to, I suppose," she said, "but there's no point in trying to conceal it…people will have to find out the truth soon enough…Potter, what did you mean?" she demanded, suddenly turning to stare at Harry fiercely. "When you accused Draco Malfoy of influencing him? Do you have any proof of this?" She sounded almost hopeful.

"No, Professor," Harry said helplessly. He had no proof. Maybe Neville even thought he had acted on his own. But you couldn't hang around with scum like Malfoy for a year and not be influenced by it. The old Neville might have been angry at Harry, but he would never have acted on it in such a way. Would he?

No. Surely not.

"I just know they've been sort of friendly this year," Harry continued. He didn't say why they were friendly. "And it's -- it's just so hard to believe Neville would've done this all by himself…"

"On that we are agreed," McGonagall said gloomily. "But I am afraid we would need far more proof than circumstantial evidence and your personal dislike of Mr. Malfoy." She took a deep breath. "Heaven knows I never suspected…he's been so withdrawn this term, but when I tried to speak with him he swore nothing was wrong…I should have…" she suddenly shook her head briskly. "I should not have said that in front of you, Potter. Please put it out of your mind, and of course don't mention it to anybody else."

"Of course." He had lots of practice in keeping professors' secrets, after all.

"I dread our House meeting in a few minutes, Potter, I freely confess that to you…" McGonagall threw the shining powder into the leaping flames and murmured something Harry couldn't make out. The powder didn't look like Floo powder, precisely; instead of being green, it was a turquoise blue colour. A moment later, the head of a man Harry didn't recognise appeared in the fireplace.

"This is Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts," McGonagall told the head crisply. "It is imperative that Harry Potter be allowed to speak with Sirius Black at once. I believe Headmaster Dumbledore has already made arrangements concerning this."

He had? This was the first Harry had heard of it. He wondered if Sirius knew about these arrangements either. They were probably only meant to be used in emergencies.

The head nodded and disappeared again. A moment later, Sirius' head appeared in its place in the flames, looking anxious. "Harry?"

Sirius looked miles better than the last time Harry had actually seen him, at the end of the Triwizard Tournament two years ago. Sirius had been forced to hide out in caves and eat rats to survive, all to escape detection by both wizard and Muggle law alike; now that he'd been a mostly-free man for a few weeks, he looked much better. His dark hair was neatly trimmed, his face fresh-shaven and no longer quite so lean, and the gleam of hunger was gone from his eyes.

He also looked very worried, and Harry quickly leaned forward to reassure him. "I'm fine, Sirius."

"Harry, thank goodness, when they said McGonagall was calling about you -- my God, you've grown." Sirius' eyes widened. "I'd forgotten how much can change during two years at your age. But why did you call me?"

Harry looked at McGonagall. She nodded, indicating he should go ahead, and stepped discreetly away, sitting behind her desk.

Harry took a deep breath, looking back at Sirius, and the day's events came spilling out of him in a rush: the match, the odd behaviour of the Snitch, his last-minute realisation of the danger and his successful attempt to protect Cho. He couldn't leave out the spell on his Firebolt, of course, but he made it sound as if he'd been saved by the spells Dumbledore and Hooch had already put on it.

It was funny, in a not-really-very-funny sort of way: knowing that Snape had protected Harry so well might be the only thing that could induce Sirius to tolerate him. But Harry couldn't tell Sirius the truth about the broom for fear of all the other questions that would inevitably arise.

By the time he was finished talking, Sirius' eyebrows were at his hairline. "Neville Longbottom?" he asked. "Frank Longbottom's son?" Then, at Harry's mute nod, he fell silent.

Harry waited for the next question, when Sirius would ask him why he thought Neville had done it, and Harry would have to start fudging again and hope Sirius didn't see through him. But Sirius merely regarded him solemnly for a long moment.

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said eventually in a quiet voice. "I'm so sorry. Are you sure you're all right? I don't mean physically."

Harry felt a hard lump lodging itself in his throat. He nodded.

Sirius looked sad. "Children like Neville…" he began, "well…I imagine he's had a rough time of it. Not that this excuses him -- if you weren't sitting here talking to me, obviously in perfect health, I'm sure I wouldn't be nearly so forgiving -- but I'm prepared to wager he's been very angry for a very long time. I have no idea why he apparently hates you so much, but I do know what it's like to feel so lost that all you can think to do is strike out at the nearest target." McGonagall made a faint choking noise from her desk, but Harry and Sirius deliberately didn't look at her. "Anger's a powerful force, Harry," Sirius continued. "Thank God you're all right."

Harry could only nod again, as he suddenly remembered that when Sirius had been Neville's age he, too, had hated someone so much he'd tried to kill him.

Sirius Black showed he was capable of murder at the age of sixteen.

Served him right…sneaking around, trying to find out what we were up to…hoping he could get us expelled…

And hadn't Harry felt that sort of anger, too? Hadn't he wanted to kill Draco Malfoy so badly he could taste it? Didn't he still feel that same yearning? Yes, oh yes. Even now, if Malfoy were here…Harry just knew he'd corrupted Neville somehow…even now…

"Harry?"

Harry jolted back to life, realising he'd been sitting silently for too long. "Huh? Oh. Sorry, Sirius…"

"Maybe you'd better go and get some rest," Sirius said gently. "You've had a difficult day."

Harry swallowed hard. "I think Professor Dumbledore will want to talk to me again."

Sirius frowned, and Harry wondered if he too was remembering the end of the Tournament, when he'd also wanted Harry to rest, and Dumbledore had gainsaid him. But all Sirius said was, "Mind you don't wear yourself out. I wish I could be there."

Harry smiled, grateful for Sirius' concern, and for just a moment he wished Sirius could be there in person. "I miss you," he said truthfully. And he did: he'd forgotten how easy it was to talk to Sirius, even though they didn't see each other very much. He never really unburdened himself to Ron and Hermione, not wanting to trouble them, and some part of him still felt that if he tried to with Severus he'd come off sounding like a whining child. But Sirius was different, for some reason Harry couldn't fully articulate. Maybe because they didn't see each other very much.

Sirius smiled at him. "Well, I'll be there as soon as I can possibly get out of here, Harry. You've got my word on that."

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Time to go, Potter."

"Bye, Sirius," Harry said.

"Bye, Harry." Sirius smiled again, but he looked more relieved this time. "I know I've been saying it over and over, but I'm so glad you're okay."

"Me too," Harry said. Sirius' head vanished from the flames, and Harry turned to Professor McGonagall. She looked at the door of her office with something akin to dread on her face.

"Into the breach, Mr. Potter," she muttered.

It seemed that all of Gryffindor was packed into the common room. The students were muttering quietly in groups now, under the stern gaze of Professor Delacour, who stood with her arms crossed by the fireplace. Ron and Hermione sat apart from the others, conversing quietly by a window. They looked up when Harry entered with McGonagall, and the whole room fell silent. Delacour nodded at McGonagall, and silently slipped out the portrait door.

McGonagall nudged Harry in the shoulder, and, gratefully, he went to join Ron and Hermione by the window. The rays of the setting sun felt warm on his back and made him feel marginally better. McGonagall opend her mouth, appeared at a loss for words -- a first -- and closed it again. The Gryffindors all began looking worriedly at each other. They had never seen their Head of House look so discomposed.

Hesitantly, Head Girl Rosemary Wilkinson stepped forward. "Everyone's here, Professor," she offered, "except Neville Longbottom…nobody can seem to find him…"

Harry winced, causing Ron and Hermione to look at him strangely. McGonagall bit her lip savagely and wrung her hands before she appeared to regain control of herself.

"Mr. Longbottom is currently with the headmaster, Miss Wilkinson," she said, with obvious difficulty. "Concerning that, I have something to say to all of you, which will not be easy to hear -- or understand."

Hermione gasped loudly, eyes going wide, and Harry knew she had guessed what was coming next. Ron looked confused.

"Yes, quite, Miss Granger," McGonagall said grimly. "It appears that the…the bomb that was aimed at Mr. Potter during the Quidditch match today was set by Longbottom. He has confessed."

The room exploded in uproar. "What?!" Ron cried disbelievingly over the noise. All eyes turned to Harry for confirmation, and he nodded, his head feeling very heavy on his shoulders.

"Silence! Silence, please!" McGonagall shouted, holding up her hands, and the noise subsided into an agitated murmuring. "We do not know why this happened. Nobody seems to have been aware of Longbottom's apparent grudge toward Potter, including, apparently, Mr. Potter himself."

Harry tried not to look guilty. Ron, clearly enraged, burst out, "Harry was helping him this year! Everybody knows that, everybody saw it! What the hell -- "

"Mr. Weasley!" McGonagall barked, and Ron stopped. "Gryffindor," she continued, "is, as of this moment, deprived of all house points earned to date." A horrified cry went up. "I am awarding Mr. Potter one hundred points for his courageous protection of Cho Chang, so we are not completely destitute; however, instead of bemoaning the loss of the House Cup, you might all be better served in thinking on Neville Longbottom -- on why he might have done this dreadful deed, and how we might have stopped him. We are -- were -- his House; we were responsible for him. I do not intend for such a thing ever to happen again.

"We were his family. We all have a share in having failed him when he needed us -- I, perhaps, most of all. In -- in future -- " McGonagall had to stop to press Harry's handkerchief to her face again. Several girls had started to cry as well, including Ginny Weasley. "In future -- "

McGonagall never got to finish her sentence; at least, not in Harry's hearing. At that moment, the portrait door swung open, and Severus stepped inside.

The Gryffindors stared at him in shock. Harry couldn't ever remember actually seeing Professor Snape set foot in Gryffindor territory before, although he supposed it made sense that the teachers would know the passwords to all the House common rooms in case of trouble. He looked very odd, a tall, spare figure dressed all in black in the midst of so much red and gold finery.

"The headmaster has sent for Potter," was all Severus said. His expression was as cold and sneering as ever. "He is to accompany me at once."

McGonagall nodded at Harry, who noticed she didn't quite look Severus in the eye. Ron and Hermione, looking distressed, patted Harry on the back as he left. As he walked away, Harry noticed Ron sending a very fierce glare in Severus' direction, as if in warning. Severus sneered again by way of reply, and the portrait of the Fat Lady swung shut behind them.

Harry followed Severus down the staircase. Neither of them spoke a word.

Then, when they were walking along the empty corridor that led to the gargoyle, Severus abruptly yanked Harry into an empty classroom, shut the door, and kissed him brutally hard. Harry flung his arms up around Severus and held on tight, felt the slam of Severus' heartbeat against his own chest.

They separated after a long, breath-stealing moment. Severus did not let Harry go, but stood pressing their foreheads together. Harry had the vague notion that the position would give them both cricks in their necks, but couldn't much bring himself to care. "That explosion -- " Severus began, and stopped, his arms going tighter still around Harry.

"I'm fine," Harry replied. "Oof." Severus loosened his grip a little. Knowing they didn't have much time, Harry said tentatively, "Neville…?"

Severus pulled back, his face drawn in such a savage snarl that Harry was taken aback. "I don't know. Dumbledore wouldn't let me in the room with him."

Privately, Harry thought he didn't blame Dumbledore a bit; the day had been dreadful enough without getting Severus sent to Azkaban, too. But he didn't say anything, just rested his head against Severus' chest, as he had longed to do before. It felt good. He sighed.

"Come down tonight," Severus muttered into his hair. The words were spoken needily, urgently, and Harry yearned to comply. But he couldn't, he just couldn't.

"I'm tired," he whispered against the black material of Severus' vest. It was true: the rush of adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him exhausted and shaken. Sirius had been right to tell him to rest. "I'm sorry, I don't think I could even -- "

"Then sleep," Severus said harshly, still not letting go of Harry. "Come down and sleep -- "

Harry's heart swelled and ached in his chest. It sounded wonderful -- a few hours, just a few hours, curled up next to Severus in bed, safe and warm and forgetful of the world outside. But… "I won't be able to," he said in frustration. "Everyone'll be up all night, talking. They'll all want to talk to me, too." Severus gripped him hard again, and Harry winced. "Won't you have to talk to the Slytherins and tell them what's happened?"

Severus finally let him go and stepped back. "That I will," he said, "but it will remain between me and my House." He straightened his robes, and his teacher-mask fell back into place, so that he looked nearly as coldly composed as when he'd entered the Gryffindor common room. From Severus to Snape in an instant; Harry never ceased to be fascinated by the process, although the distinction between the two was now indistinguishably blurred in his mind. He tried not to regret the loss of warm arms around him. "We have already tarried too long, no doubt," Severus said. "The headmaster is waiting."

"I'm sorry," Harry said. And then, "You saved my life."

Severus only looked at him. "I know," he said quietly.

Harry remembered something Dumbledore had told him back in third year: that when one wizard saved another's life, it created a deep magical bond between them. He and Severus had saved each others' lives several times now, dating all the way back to first year. How many bonds did that make? Did the bond get stronger the more you protected someone? Were he and Severus going to be bound for ever like that? He could think of worse fates, Harry decided. Much worse.

Then again, Harry had saved the lives of both Neville and Pettigrew, and a fat lot of good that had done him. Maybe Dumbledore was wrong.

After checking that the corridor was still empty, Severus beckoned Harry out and led the way to the stone gargoyle. "Cupcakes," he bit out, and the gargoyle gave way. To Harry's surprise, Severus did not ascend the staircase, but stood aside for Harry to pass. "He wants to speak to you alone," Severus said, when Harry looked at him questioningly.

Harry swallowed hard and nodded. He wasn't sure if he felt up to facing Dumbledore alone right now -- it might have been nice to have Severus there in the background, even if he didn't say anything. "I'm…I'll see you as soon as I can," he said in a low voice.

"You're damned right you will," Severus said, still glaring. Harry gave him a tired, but heartfelt smile, and began the long trudge up the staircase. He knew Severus watched him until he was out of sight.

When he entered the office, there was no sign of Neville. Dumbledore sat behind his enormous desk, staring meditatively at Fawkes on his perch. The phoenix was starting to look a little worn, his plumage beginning to moult. Harry judged that Burning Day wasn't too far off.

"Sir?" he asked tentatively.

"Sit down, Harry," Dumbledore said.

Harry sat, his stomach wriggling miserably. Neville would have told Dumbledore everything -- about the confrontation in the corridor, about Harry's angry threat. And Dumbledore would be so disappointed in Harry. He'd been the one to urge Harry to be kind to Neville in fourth year, after all.

Dumbledore turned his gaze from Fawkes and looked at Harry for a long moment. Harry tried not to squirm in his chair, but forced himself to meet the untwinkling blue gaze head-on.

"Neville has refused to say why he attacked you," Dumbledore said.

Harry stared at him in shock.

"I am deeply saddened by what has happened today, Harry," Dumbledore continued. "As are we all, of course. And as headmaster, naturally I bear a degree of personal responsibility. When Neville was here, we contacted his grandmother. It was not a pleasant experience."

Harry wasn't sure why Dumbledore had told him that, but it prompted him to ask, "What's going to happen to Neville, sir?" Surely he wouldn't get sent to Azkaban, or anything like that? Neville was only sixteen…

"After our talk," Dumbledore said, "I am convinced of what I must admit I suspected before: that Neville Longbottom is a very disturbed young man. It was his family's hope, and mine, that a normal life among his peers would help him settle down, and for a time it appeared to do so. I do not know what prompted his turn from unhappy to murderous -- I hope you may be able to enlighten me, Harry, on that subject -- but I feel that for now the best course of action is to send him to St. Mungo's for evaluation."

So Neville would be joining his parents. His raving mad parents. Harry felt a spike of pain stab him in the gut. He hadn't meant -- he hadn't known -- "You're going to lock him away?" he burst out in horror.

Dumbledore regarded him steadily. "I said 'evaluation,' Harry," he said gently. "Not detention. Neville is disturbed, but not insane. I believe that he may be greatly helped by working with the professionals in St. Mungo's -- and if it comes right down to it, I can arrange consultations with mental health specialists in the Muggle world who liaise with us -- but it may take some time. Years, perhaps. Neville's problems will not be easily solved. But I have been able to arrange things so that he will not go to prison, and I must say, that is not an easy feat when someone has attempted to murder the most famous boy in the world.

"Which brings me to my question, Harry," Dumbledore continued, looking at Harry piercingly over his spectacles. "Why did Neville attempt to kill you?"

Harry felt like a butterfly pinned down in a display case. Dumbledore's eyes, not twinkling or merry at all, were like pins. He knew how guilty Harry felt, how somehow it was his fault too, he must know…

He doesn't know.

The voice spoke up in his head, insistent, impossible to ignore.

He doesn't know what happened. He's bluffing. He's trying to make you confess. This is what he does. This is how he traps people.

Ridiculous, Harry thought, and opened his mouth to admit the whole terrible thing, about his threat to expose the truth about Neville's parents, about how that must have been enough to push Neville over the edge.

And he heard himself say, "I don't know, Professor."

And blinked.

Dumbledore continued to regard him calmly, and said nothing. Harry kept on talking, marvelling at what was coming out of his mouth. "I -- I told you he'd been friends with Malfoy this year, and you know how scared Neville is of Professor Snape…well…I'm not sure what happened, exactly, but I think Malfoy might have been…er…insinuating that Professor Snape and I were…er…close. You know. Like the newspaper said…"

Dumbledore nodded, looking disturbed.

"I just overheard them talking about it one day, and I told Neville later it wasn't true," Harry didn't quite meet Dumbledore's eyes when he said that, "but he didn't believe me. He was so angry."

"When was this?" Dumbledore asked.

"Last week," Harry whispered. It was the truth. Everything he'd said so far was true, strictly speaking. It wasn't a lie, it wasn't. That must be why Dumbledore couldn't appear to see that he was hiding something. He dared to ask the question that was uppermost in his mind. "Erm, sir? Why d'you think Neville wouldn't tell you why he tried to kill me?"

"Because he does not trust me," Dumbledore said.

Harry stared at him.

"And as for that," Dumbledore continued, "I am afraid I have no answer at all."

Harry rather thought he did. He'd implied that Dumbledore had told Harry the truth about Neville's parents -- that would certainly be enough to make Neville clam up in front of Dumbledore. Oh, no. I did this…I did it…

He wanted to hurt Severus, the whispery voice piped up again. He was going to tell. Severus was going to die on the steps of Hogwarts… and there was that awful image, of Severus going down in a hail of curses, and you had to choose, didn't you?

Yes. Harry had had to choose. That was what happened when you grew up. Choices. And if it came down to Neville or Severus, of course there was no real choice at all.

He'd done what he had to do, and then Neville had made his own choice, and that was that.

Dumbledore was still looking at Harry. Harry met his eyes this time. "I hope Neville gets better soon, sir," he said.

Dumbledore's eyes were sharp, searching, assessing. And Harry realised, with a bone-deep thrill, that they weren't finding what they were looking for.

I can hide things from Dumbledore.

He couldn't explain how he was doing it, or even how he knew it was true, but it was.

"Harry, tell me something," Dumbledore said, and Harry tried not to tense up. "How did you realise the Snitch was dangerous?"

Harry had to think about that one. There was no reason not to answer it honestly, as far as he could tell. "I'm not sure, sir," he said. "I mean, the Firebolt was acting so crazy under me, and I didn't know what was going on…but I knew something was wrong, somehow. I don't know how," he admitted.

Dumbledore nodded.

"I expect you could feel it too," Harry said. "It all happened so fast, I didn't notice until it was almost about to explode, the broom knew it before I did -- "

"I am afraid I wasn't at the match," Dumbledore said mildly. "I wanted to be, of course, but these are frenetically busy times."

"Oh," Harry said. "Well…er…I hope you can come to the rematch, then." Even as he said it, he realised how silly and trivial it sounded.

"There will be no rematch," Dumbledore said. "I feel it would be more prudent to call an end to the season. I do not believe one year without a Quidditch Cup will kill any of us."

Privately, Harry wasn't so sure about Imogene. But he nodded. If there was a rematch, it would have to be within the next week or so, with exams coming up -- and the memory would be so fresh, the potential for trouble so great. Best not to risk it, probably.

"Just one more thing, Harry, and then you may go," Dumbledore said. "I know this afternoon must have been dreadful for you. But I must ask: you believe that this…perceived bond between yourself and Professor Snape is what angered Neville? Enough to kill you?"

"Neville hates Sna…Professor Snape," Harry said evasively. "When I tried to talk to him about it, he seemed a bit unbalanced. He's always been scared of him, and I think he believes Professor Snape had something to do with his…his parents…"

Dumbledore suddenly looked tired. "Hatred is a bewildering thing, Harry. I freely confess that after many years on this earth, I still do not understand it…nor do I fully understand love." He looked directly at Harry again. "Changing the subject entirely, of course, you were very well-protected by your broom today, or so I hear."

Harry went scarlet in spite of himself.

A little of the sadness seemed to vanish from Dumbledore's eyes, and he even managed a very faint smile. "You may go."

Harry left.

As he had expected, Gryffindor Tower rang that night with whispers, and Ron and Seamus and Dean stayed up all night, talking, sometimes glancing apprehensively at Neville's empty bed. His things had already been removed. It was as if he'd never lived there at all.

Harry went to bed shortly after midnight, after a long, hushed conversation with Ron and Hermione, during which he kept as quiet as possible, listened to Ron speculate on whether Neville's exploding cauldron back in September had been another murder attempt, and watched Hermione sit pale and still with unhappiness.

"McGonagall's right," she said at one point. "We should have helped him."

"Helped him?" Ron asked in disgust. "He tried to kill Harry! He was friends with Malfoy! People like that oughtn't to be helped, they ought to be locked away!"

"And he will be," Harry muttered. Hermione looked sadder.

Later that night, as he lay in bed staring up at the shadowed canopy and listening to the whispers of the other boys, Harry thought he knew how she felt. But he thought Ron was right, too. Neville had known what he was doing, and he'd paid the price. That was how things were. Everything came with some kind of price, didn't it?

Harry thought of Severus, down in the dungeons, and wondered what he was doing, how he was feeling.

Some prices, he decided, were worth paying.

Harry rolled onto his side and shut his eyes, but in spite of his very real exhaustion, sleep wouldn't come.

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