The Child of the Seventh Month

18. The Monster of Slytherin

The next morning at breakfast, Neville looked terrible.

As Harry entered the Great Hall, he couldn't help but notice Neville sitting at the Gryffindor table at his usual spot, his eyes puffy and red, as if he hadn't slept a wink the night before. Apprehensive, Harry made his way over to him, but before he could say anything, Neville grabbed his arm with surprising strength, his eyes wild with desperation.

"Harry," he whispered urgently, his voice trembling. "You have my bag, don't you?"

Harry frowned, taken aback by Neville's intensity. "Neville, what's wrong? You look like you haven't slept all night."

Neville shook his head frantically, his grip tightening on Harry's arm. "My bag!" he said. "Where is it?"

"In my dorm. I'll grab it for you after breakfast."

"No! I need it now!"

Harry's brow furrowed at Neville's insistence. "Okay, okay," he relented. He had wanted to talk to his brother privately anyway. "I'll get it now. Come on."

Neville followed Harry out of the Great Hall, his steps hurried and anxious. As they walked towards the dungeons, Harry couldn't shake the feeling of unease that clung to him like a second skin - was it something Dumbledore had told Neville that unnerved him so? Was it yesterday's attack? Was it just the loss of his bag? He could barely wait until they passed the group of Gryffindor students who scoffed at the sight of the two of them before he asked:

"What did Dumbledore want from you yesterday?"

Neville's face darkened at Harry's question, and he looked away, avoiding his gaze. "It... it was nothing, really," he muttered. "Dumbledore just wanted to know why I stayed in the Trophy Room."

Harry frowned, sensing that Neville wasn't being entirely truthful. "That's it? He just wanted to know why you were in the Trophy Room?"

Neville nodded, though his eyes betrayed a hint of something more. "Yeah, and he was worried about... you know, my health. Said I looked tired and asked if I was sleeping well."

"What else did he say?" Harry pressed.

Neville kept his gaze trained on the staircase at the end of the corridor. "Nothing important," he muttered. "Just the usual stuff about staying safe and keeping out of trouble."

Harry didn't believe him in the slightest. "Did you talk about the Lord? What did Dumbledore want to know?"

"No, no, we didn't talk about him. He wanted to know if I saw anything unusual that night, that's all."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe this. You think it's a coincidence that Dumbledore wanted to talk to you right after we'd found that student? There's something you're not telling me. Does he suspect us? You? Did he try to turn you against the Lord? Asked about His plans?"

"Harry, please, I promise, he didn't say anything bad about the Lord," Neville said in a squeaky voice, stumbling a little on some uneven stone as they marched down the stairs. "He just wanted to know if I was alright. He's the headmaster - he's supposed to care about our well-being."

Irritation flared in Harry. "Since when did you start believing that? He's manipulating you. He's trying to drive a wedge between us."

Neville shook his head, his eyes pleading. "I'm not turning against you, Harry. Or the Lord. I swear."

Harry glared at his brother. "Tell me everything he told you, from start to finish," he demanded.

Neville paled. "I-I don't remember every single thing he said."