THE SEARCH FOR LIFE AND DEATH

Chapter XXVII

The Gauntlet

Defense Against the Dark Arts was a joke.

If Fred and George hadn't known that their uncles, Gideon and Fabian Prewitt, had died at the hands of Death Eaters, they would have thought that the class must have been unnecessary, since the headmaster didn't seem to bother hiring competent professors.

Now, Fred and George had great respect for Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Asides from having the longest name of anyone they knew, the headmaster of Hogwarts also had a great sense of humor and eyes that sometimes just seemed to go blind when they skirted over one of the twins' in-progress pranks. That is, of course, when the man didn't stop and offer his own suggestions on the project.

Even so, with all the respect they had for the man, they had to admit that he was more than slightly barmy, and that he picked the worst Defense teachers.

"Not including Lupin, of course."

"Of course. Remus is a good chap."

Because, yes, of course the twins were well aware that certain moments of their lives were being narrated by a third party.

Umbridge, however, was probably the worst Defense professor they had ever had, and Fred and George had been in school two years longer than our Golden Trio. They had been present for Professor Rumple, who had short-term memory loss and was worse than Professor Binns at knowing students' names, and who often cast the stunning spell when trying to teach students the tripping hex.

And before that, there was Professor Biggles, the animagus who, when spooked, would transform abruptly into a Scottish terrier and spend ten minutes barking at whoever had frightened him. The most memorable day, of course, had been in the middle of winter, after days of snowball fights outside, when half of the Defense class had the sniffles. Every time someone would sneeze, Professor Biggles would jump in fright and transform, standing on his desk, barking at the student. When he regained control of himself almost ten minutes later, it would not be long before another student would sneeze and the cycle would renew.

Of course, despite the sentimentality of that day, Fred and George still remembered fondly their first major prank of first year, when they had unleashed a series of firecrackers beneath Professor Biggles' chair in the Great Hall during dinner. The Scottish terrier chased a certain startled cat animagus out of the Great Hall and down the main corridor. Their mum was so mad she sent her very first Fred and George-induced Weasley Howler. It was a memory to power a Patronus for sure!

Umbridge topped them all, of course. She was worse than Quirrell, who stuttered something fierce when you didn't know he had a Dark Lord strapped to the back of his head. She topped Lockhart, who might have brought pixies in for the second years to work with, but who informed the fourth years that he had their worst nemesis hidden under a drape, and then removed said drape to display — GASP! — a mirror. Yes, it was terrifying. And after Lupin, who had been awesome even with the werewolf bit, there had been Moody, who wasn't actually Mad-Eye, but even before they'd known that, had been completely terrifying. Casting Unforgivables, and in front of a bunch of kids!

Yes, Umbridge was the worst so far. After all, she had them reading, right out of the book.

"This is such a waste of time," George said, flicking the page in his text and pretending to read while he fiddled with his wand under the desk.

"I think it's a perfectly good idea," Fred argued quietly back, staring down at the pages of his book.

"Yes, well, you're the dumber one of the two of us."

"And you're the uglier one, which is why you're more likely to be assumed the dumber one, and therefore will get off scot-free!"

"I still think the firecrackers would have been time much more well spent."

"Yes, but how cliché."

"True."

And with that, George made a stabbing motion with his wand, and the desk Umbridge was sitting behind turned into a giant blob of purple gelatin and swallowed her.

"Hey, Neville, you okay?" Hermione asked as she sat down at the Gryffindor table. Neville was hunched in on himself more than usual, rubbing his hands over his arms as though to warm himself.

"Wha- oh, hi, Hermione." He shivered. "I'm okay, I guess. I have a weird feeling."

"A weird feeling? What from?" Ron asked. He was piling his plate high with everything within reach.

"I don't know," Neville admitted. "I just woke up feeling off."

"Maybe you're getting sick," Hermione suggested. "You should probably go see Madam Pomfrey before class."

Neville nodded. "Yeah, maybe." He started to say something else when a great horned owl he recognized as his gran's stern Telemachus swooped into the Hall and headed over to him.

"Bit late for mail," Ron commented before shoving a huge spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"Honestly, Ron," Hermione huffed.

Telemachus landed on a space Neville had quickly cleared on the table and held out a large clawed foot for him to take the letter from. After he did so, the owl flapped his large wings once and rose into the air, swooping out of the Hall without a moment of hesitation for a considered reply.

Neville didn't pay attention to this, completely accustomed to the mannerisms of the owl that was as brusque as his gran's. He opened the envelope and pulled out a short letter, scanning it with a small smile on his face that disappeared as his eyes trailed down the page. His fingers dug into the parchment, crinkling it, and he stood up abruptly, nearly tripping over the bench, and dashed from the Hall.

"Neville!" Hermione cried, startled by this odd reaction. She quickly dashed off after him, followed by Ron and Harry. They had barely made it out of the Hall when they were stopped by Professor McGonagall. Neville was just a few paces away, tears running down his face as he was quietly spoken to by a solemn-faced Dumbledore.

"This is a personal matter that Mister Longbottom needs to speak to the headmaster about."

"But… is Neville okay, Professor?" Hermione asked, her eyes never leaving the clearly distraught boy.

"In time he will be, but this is for him to tell you if he chooses. For now, please return to the Great Hall and finish your lunch. Mr. Longbottom will be unlikely to join you for the remainder of the day."

They didn't see Neville for the rest of the day. It was strange to not see him in Herbology, quietly dominating the class that he was the best in. Harry and Ron sat through Divination and rejoined Hermione in History of Magic, where they spoke in undertones, wondering what had happened to their quiet friend before the droning of Professor Binns put them all to sleep.

As it was, their questions were answered that night at dinner, when the Great Hall was filled with an uncharacteristic number of owls for so late in the day. As a brown owl landed in front of Hermione, it became clear that the rush was due to an evening issue of the Daily Prophet — a rarity unless there was a large stirring of news.

Hermione unfolded the paper and scowled at the front page. "It's that Drivelle again. What have they-" She gasped as she scanned the paper quickly.

"What is it?" Ron asked, leaning over her shoulder to look at the article.

Lost Auror Finally Passes

by J. Drivelle

It is with great sadness that we must record this day the day that Franklin Longbottom finally passes from this world. A well-remembered auror of skill renowned even outside of Britain, Frank Longbottom and his wife, Alice, were understandably removed from their positions in the DMLE after an attack by Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange in their home.

Driven to insanity by the horror of the Cruciatus Curse, Frank and Alice Longbottom have spent the past fourteen years as helpless patients in the long-term care ward of St. Mungo's. It has been said that while Alice Longbottom is capable of wandering the hospital to some degree, she and her husband are both without their wits, and he is known to mumble incomprehensible phrases from time to time, particularly during visits from their only child, Hogwarts student Neville Longbottom.

Neville, a Gryffindor fifth year of, reportedly, questionable skill, has spent the past fourteen years of his life being raised by Frank Longbottom's mother, the Dowager Augusta Longbottom. He visits his parents frequently.

"He comes in and talks to them like he thinks they can understand him. It's heartbreaking, really, that he's allowed to have that much hope," says a mediwitch on duty in the long-term ward.

While young mister Longbottom's dedication to his parents is applauded, this reporter has to ask why he has been allowed to entertain this false hope. Wouldn't it be better for all involved if the Longbottoms, who gave all they could to protect their son that fateful night, were allowed some measure of peace.

"It' s good to know he is in a better place now," says Gilderoy Lockhart, renowned dark creature expert and author of many books.

Truly, we at the Daily Prophet weep for such a loss as we have all suffered today, but we have to wonder if it isn't better to let go of the past and move on. Certainly, it will be a quiet day in St. Mungo's long-term ward without the utterings of former-auror Frank Longbottom, and our condolences to Alice, who must suffer the rest of her time there alone. We only hope her son is there to keep her company through whatever time she has left.

"That... that bitch," Hermione swore.

"Hermione!" Fred and George declared in shock. Both of them were grinning widely at the unexpected scandal of Hermione Granger cursing in public. In response, Hermione practically threw the newspaper at them. After glancing at the article, their smiles quickly slipped from their faces.

Hermione was furious. She was very tempted - very, very tempted - to run out of the Great Hall and find a secluded place to skip back twelve hours and handle this, but no. That wouldn't work. She glared at the newspaper Fred and George were reading. The front page didn't have anything else about Neville's parents besides Drivelle's slop of an article.

Hermione stabbed a fork into her dinner and resisted the urge to try and fight against certainty. Even as she scrapped one plan, another was formulating in her mind as she ate. She would be pressed for time even with the use of the Time Turner, but it would be worth it.

Dinner finished quickly for Hermione, her mind too wrapped up in plans and calculations to notice the meager passing of time. So it was that she failed to notice Luna Lovegood sitting at the Ravenclaw table, talking to someone dressed in a dark hooded cloak decorated with golden runes.

Luna Lovegood had always been odd. Most people thought her strangeness had been caused by the death of her mother when she was a child of nine years, but she had been strange by normal standards long before then. Born with silvery-blue eyes that seemed too large and to see too far, people naturally shied away from her. Luna did not blame them. It was human nature to fear that which you didn't understand, to rise against in en masse. It saddened her that humans so limited themselves, but it wasn't their fault that they were so very young. Only time could change the measure of a man. Or mankind, rather.

Of course, not all humans were like that. They might have thought her strange, but that didn't mean they hated her, or even feared her. Sometimes, Luna thought, staring after a departing Hermione, they were almost as weird as she was.

Almost.

It was strange to be at Longbottom Manor so early in the school year.

He was accustomed to going home for the holidays, spending Christmas Day with his gran and his great uncle and all the strangers who made up their social circle. It had never been pleasant for him, but it had become a part of his routine. This, though, was not.

Neville lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. Professor Dumbledore had escorted him to St. Mungo's by floo, where his gran had apparently spent the majority of the day. She was in a state he hadn't expected: distraught and with a lost expression on her face which didn't fit the severe temperament she usually held so well. He hadn't been sure what to do, watching as she talked with mediwitches and wizards, or at them, demanding answers and reason and a fix - all things they couldn't give her. Her son was gone. He had been gone, really, for years, but now finally, all hope had gone with him.

Neville had made his way into the room that had once held two people and now held just one. His mother was not distraught, not like his grandmother, but there was a confused look on her face as she lingered by her bed, shuffling lightly from foot to foot. She looked as though she had forgotten something, and forgotten what it was she had forgotten. Neville could commiserate with the feeling.

He'd held her hand with a deep ache in his heart, offering what comfort he could, talking quietly to her and trying not to look at the empty bed on the other side of the room.

His gran had eventually retrieved him, her own sense of pain and loss locked up tight again behind severity and a sharp tongue. They'd returned to Longbottom Manor by floo, and she had left him to find dinner by means of the house elves, disappearing deep into the manor and leaving him to his own devices. This, of course, was also routine, but there was a sick feeling in his stomach that he was unaccustomed to dealing with.

He'd skipped eating, not feeling as though he could manage it without throwing up, and found his bedroom as he had left it the morning of September the first. He'd slid into bed, intent on sleeping.

Seven hours later and he was still awake, staring at the ceiling, his stomach aching. He felt sick and tired and lost, yet like nothing had really changed at all.

His mind drifted back to the article that had been in the Daily Prophet and he wondered if maybe J. Drivelle wasn't right and he wasn't just a selfish child who couldn't stand the idea of letting go of his parents, even if they were already gone.

Parent, he thought. Singular.

Neville rolled over and sobbed into his pillow.

With the exception of strange dreams he'd had growing up about flying motorcycles and flashes of light, Harry had never had any recollection of his parents prior to the Dementors dragging up their last moments in his third year. He had never had anyone to fear losing before he started Hogwarts and made friends for the first time. Harry knew there was no way he could truly understand what Neville was feeling at the moment. His parents had been dead for years, but Neville's had been alive, if injured beyond healing, and now one of them was gone.

Harry tried to imagine what it would be like to lose Sirius, but his mind shied away from the thought and he let it scramble from the reach of the consideration. He couldn't fathom how Neville must be hurting, but he knew he would be. Harry had determined at the beginning of the year to be a better friend to Neville, and he planned on keeping that promise.

But he had no idea what he could do to help with this.

The worst thing about the time turner that Hermione was given was that it was so limited. There existed numerous time turners of various strengths, but as they were being given to students, even responsible students, the time turner that Hermione had been given couldn't go back any further than one day. This was a pity because she suspected she would have been able to perform better research if she could spin back to a point where she was able to leave Hogwarts.

Then again, that might have been pushing it. And a long wait, besides.

So it was that Hermione retired to bed that evening and fell asleep with the time turner tucked inside her pajama top. She woke with a startled yelp as a stinging hex hit her on the bum. She sat up abruptly and pointed a wand at herself.

"I can't risk touching… you."

"Oh, right."

It was not a proven fact that two versions of the same person making physical contact across a spacial rift in time would cause a paradox. It was merely a hypothesis, but one that further hypothesized that, rather than unravel the world, a paradox caused by two exact objects attempting to occupy the same space would cancel the other out. It might not unravel time back to the beginning of that person's existence, but may, instead, simply cause them to cease to exist from that point on. Obviously, it couldn't be proven, because if it had ever happened to anyone before, they were no longer around to talk about it.

In either case, Hermione couldn't risk physically touching herself. That didn't mean she was overly pleased about getting a stinging hex in the arse, though.

"You're in a foul mood," she remarked to herself as she changed her clothes. She was keeping her voice low so as not to wake her roommates, although she was lucky in that all of them were pretty heavy sleepers.

"You're in for a long day," Future Hermione said. She tossed a robe at Hermione, who pulled it on over her clothes and slipped on her trainers.

"Any advice?" she asked, pulling the long chain of the time turner out from under her shirt.

Future Hermione rubbed the inside of her right arm. "Find a way to move more quietly." She crawled under the blankets without even bothering to remove her trainers and rolled over so she was facing away from herself.

Hermione stared at her future self's back for a moment before she sighed and started twisting the time turner. She counted to twenty-four. The world around her lit up with color as she spun back.

Twenty-four hours in the past, Hermione opened her eyes, not realizing she had closed them, to find herself in the shadow of a great tower, in a world she couldn't remember when awake.

"What?" she whispered.

A howl broke the silence of the world and Hermione spun to see a frizzy-haired girl running from a werewolf who was swiftly gaining on her.

"I have no idea how this is even possible, but REDUCTO!" The crimson curse streaked past her younger self, only missing the werewolf's face because he had the presence of mind to dodge. Even so, the blasting curse struck the ground and sent the werewolf sprawling.

"This doesn't make any sense!" Hermione shouted as the other version of her raced up to her. "You're… this hasn't… that hasn't happened to me yet!"

"I'm your future," the other Hermione said.

"But I've already seen him!" She pointed at the werewolf, who was back on his feet. "Oh dear."

"Argument for another time, I think. Come on!" The other Hermione grabbed her hand and started dragging her into the tower. The tower that Hermione had been trying so hard to reach, and woke up under? What?

"I'm so confused," she muttered, as her future self (which she was sure should be her past self) pulled her inside the tower and up on a staircase.

"Just wait," her other self said. "You think you're having trouble with it now." She stopped on the staircase and Hermione stumbled to a halt.

"What are we waiting for?"

A howl broke the silence and Hermione's head whipped around just in time to see a werewolf race through the tower, in one door and out the other. She gaped for a moment, then bolted for the door.

"Right," the other Hermione muttered. "Curiosity."

Hermione caught herself on the doorjamb and stared out of it, watching as the two werewolves collided in an explosion of fur, limbs, and snarls.

"Professor Lupin," she murmured. Then her eyes went wide. "Oh crap oh crap oh crap I still look like me!" She looked down at herself, studying her form. She was dressed in her usual pristine black school robes over a comfortable blouse and pants. Her hair was its natural frizzy mess and everything about her said Hermione Jean Granger, because she hadn't yet decided who it was she should be instead. Such a hard decision! But she was out of time now.

Yelping and snarls and the two werewolves were fighting, but that wouldn't last for long and whoever stuck around, Hermione couldn't be Hermione where they would see.

She tried to focus her attention, tried to think about witches and wizards she'd read about in history books, about what kind of person she wanted to be when she grew up, about what sort of person would be exactly opposite the kind she was. She tried to think about how she could hide herself, but the thought just brought up words from the past, admonishments from a beloved professor to be yourself, no matter how much it pisses people off. Hermione thought about the one professor who, prior to Hogwarts, had always stood by her, always pushed her, challenged her intellect, and demanded she do her very best.

She thought about how much she missed that kind, stern woman, and how much she had wanted to be like her, and she felt the world around her shift.

It wasn't really the world shifting, but everything within her seemed to skew for a moment, twisting her perspective, changing the way the world was in comparison, and for just a moment, Hermione was again spinning outside of time, trapped in a vortex, and then the world settled.

She looked down at herself, startled, not having expected her need to change to pick up on her thoughts of the past, but she could see that she looked different. She lifted her head, looked over at her future self, and very nearly fell over in shock.

It was like staring back through time.

She didn't look exactly like Professor Renaud. The clothing choice alone was a glaring difference, but the eyes were softer than those she had remembered, the face not as sure - Hermione shining through the illusion. Despite that, it was still like staring back six years and seeing a woman who had become a dear friend, and who was painfully missed.

A loud yelp, the sound of claws scrambling on stone, and suddenly there was a werewolf next to her, all torn fur and bleeding wounds and bared teeth dripping saliva. Hermione instinctively looked for defining marks, a slash across the muzzle of the creature, and saw none. She remembered that scar - it had been one of the clues that led her to the truth in third year of Professor Lupin being a werewolf. She remembered it later, at the end of the year, too. When one faces extreme traumatic dangers, they tend to either erase the other experience from their memory or document everything. Naturally, Hermione was part of the latter. She remembered the gleaming silver scar across the muzzle of a transformed werewolf, and this werewolf having none meant this one was not Professor Lupin.

She tried to move. Really, she did. But just as no one could hope to outrun a werewolf, they were equally impossible to dodge. She went down under the force of at least twelve stone, her head hitting the floor and making her vision dance. There was a snarl above her, teeth that flashed, and then a fierce pain as something clamped down hard on the inside of her right arm. Hermione let out a scream…

She sat up, blinking.

She was sitting on the floor of her dorm, not far from her bed, and there was a pale light streaming in through the window. The sun was starting to rise. She had fallen asleep… apparently right after skipping back.

She didn't know how she had managed that feat, not remembering falling asleep or, possibly, collapsing, but the sun was rising and her roommates (and her past self) would be waking soon. Hermione made sure she was dressed appropriately, then slipped out of the dorm and out of the Common Room before someone could see her and remember that she had already been up.

Her stomach grumbled and she flicked her wand, checking the time. She would fetch some toast from the Great Hall and then find somewhere to hole up for a few hours. She had work to do.

Ginny was sitting at the Gryffindor table when Hermione walked into the Great Hall. Facing the entrance doors, she noticed the slight pause the fifth year made before she continued on, taking the seat across from her.

"Good morning, Hermione," Ginny greeted, scooping up another spoonful of scrambled eggs.

"Hi, Ginny. You're up early."

"Oh, I always get up early in the morning." Was that why she'd hesitated? Ginny supposed she rarely saw Hermione in the Great Hall this early in the morning. Usually, she went to breakfast with Ron and Harry. "Otherwise, I'm not likely to eat considering Ron's appetite."

"That makes sense," Hermione said. She laughed nervously as she grabbed two pieces of toast.

Ginny watched for a moment as Hermione began to butter her toast quite a bit more violently than usual. She knew the other girl could be extreme at times and had a habit of becoming frazzled but it seemed too early in the year for that.

"Hermione, are you okay?"

"Fine, fine," she responded, taking a Ron-sized bite of toast.

"Are you sure?"

Hermione nodded emphatically and stood up, one piece of toast in her hand and the other dangling from her clenched teeth as she slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way out of the Great Hall. The half-hearted wave she sent in Ginny's direction seemed a secondary thought.

"I believe the wrackspurts infesting her hair are evolving to disturbing proportions."

"Hello, Luna," Ginny said, turning to the blonde girl who had suddenly appeared standing on the other side of the table. "Would you like to join me for breakfast?"

"Good morning, Ginevra," Luna said, taking Hermione's vacated seat. "I would like that very much, thank you."

The two of them were silent for a few minutes, Ginny busy thinking as Luna dished herself chunks of fresh fruit and slathered them with a thick cream. As she was covering the cream with sprinkles the elves knew she enjoyed, Ginny said, "Luna, do you think the wrackspurts around Hermione are dangerous?"

"Hm," Luna said thoughtfully as she shook some nutmeg over her sprinkle-covered fruit and cream. "That depends on who you are concerned she is a danger to."

"Well... herself, mostly."

"Not immediately." Luna stuck a creamy pineapple chunk into her mouth and chewed with delight. "Although, I suspect she must be getting quite tired with all that extra running around."

"Yeah," Ginny said, grabbing a few extra pieces of bacon before she passed the plate down the table to a new arrival. "I knew fourth year was going to be more taxing but I didn't expect to be so exhausted this early." She nibbled on a scone before pausing. "What do you mean extra running around?"

"With all of the extra time she's been spending on each day. I'm surprised you haven't noticed."

She returned to her breakfast, the real expression of delight on her face overcoming the normally vague contentedness she wore. Ginny let Luna bask in what she knew was her favorite meal of the day. Her mind was going over the girl's words. She knew what she thought Hermione might be doing but she was loathe to even think about it too strongly, because if she was right, Hermione was breaking the law. Not just school rules but Wizarding Law, and for Hermione to do that...

"Not immediately, Luna?"

Luna licked the cream off her spoon. "Hermione Granger has proven to be quite resilient in the past, as well as stubborn, so I suspect she will manage to handle her-admittedly erratic-schedule for quite some time. Then again, she received her necklace in third year and that was further past for her than us even without her extra dancing, so perhaps my judgment is cloudy." For a moment, she appeared concerned. "Oh dear. Ginevra, how does one go about clearing up a cloudy judgment?"

"Tea always works for me," Ginny said, hopping up from the table. She dashed out of the Hall, calling back "Thanks, Luna!"

"Of course," Luna said in relief, as a mug appeared before her filled with steaming tea, "a super-heated infusion of free radicals and tannins. Just what the doctor ordered."

I can't believe Hermione still has the Time Turner! Ginny thought as she raced out of the castle in the direction she had thought she'd seen the other girl go. She told me she had to return it at the end of third year when she warned me that it was more pressure than she'd feel good about advocating. If she lied, I'm going to have to Bat Bogey her, female solidarity or not! Now where–there.

Ginny caught sight of a head of bushy hair out by the lake — probably the only thing that distinguished Hermione at this distance — and made her way out there. She fumed as she walked, wondering why Hermione had lied to her and if she, Ron, and Harry were all traveling back in time and getting extra time to sleep and do homework while Ginny was left behind.

Again, her mind whispered, the voice sounding too much like Tom's for comfort and Ginny broke into a run. She hated his voice in her head, whispering every doubt into her ear, and she wondered if she would never be rid of it.

"Ginny?"

The surprise in Hermione's voice startled her out of her reverie and she realized that she had arrived at the lake. She fell to a stop, nearly actually falling, and took a few minutes to catch her breath. She didn't think she'd been lost in her thoughts that long, but apparently she had been.

Hermione was staring at her from where she was sitting cross-legged on the dock and Ginny saw that she was surrounded by open books and parchment. With a flurry of anger, she remembered what she'd realized on the way to the lake and Ginny whipped out her wand and pointed it at Hermione's startled face.

"... Ginny?"

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't Bat Bogey both nostrils for lying to me for two years."

"Because I have no idea what you're talking about," Hermione said slowly, raising her hands up in the universal sign of "please don't hurt me."

"Two words," Ginny said through gritted teeth. "Time. Turner."

The color drained out of Hermione's face.

"Uh-huh," Ginny said, and began to mutter an incantation.

"I didn't lie!" Hermione said quickly.

Ginny waved her wand to the side in the slashing motion that negated the half-uttered spell. "Really?" she drawled skeptically.

Hermione nodded. "When I talked to you about the... extra classes I took, it was a couple days before I was due to... talk to Professor McGonagall. I had planned to return it but..."

"But what?"

Hermione hesitated. "Can you keep a secret?"

Ginny was pretty sure the look she gave Hermione could have put Snape's "you're all dunderheads" expression to shame. She sat down next to her on the dock and listened as Hermione explained how the time turner had been forgotten in the mess with Sirius Black and the dementors and how Time itself had seemed to interfere every chance she found to try and return it. She sat and she listened as Hermione bared the secret to her of what she had been doing these past two years, and what she had planned for this one.

And where one time traveler had sat before, there now sat two.

It was the following morning during breakfast when the Daily Prophet made noise again. Hermione and Ginny were sitting together, across from a sleepy Harry and Ron, who had been dragged out of bed far too early for their liking. They ate their breakfast with mild grumbling as Hermione and Ginny read the article on the front page with barely-restrained nerves.

A Farewell to Arms

It was not this reporter's intention to return to the Daily Prophet so soon into her leave, but a travesty has occurred that is too great for this reporter to bear in silence and she must return to right a wrong that has been done.

As was revealed in last night's emergency release of the Daily Prophet , we are forced to say a final farewell to a man of great deeds, great friendship, and great love. That man's name was Franklin Augustus Longbottom.

M any will remember Frank Longbottom as Head Boy during his seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, or Captain of the Quidditch team during his fourth year and only year playing as Chaser for Gryffindor. Still others will remember (some jealously, I am told) that he was in the top five bracket in all seven of his school years for his skills in Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology - skills he clearly passed on to his son, Neville Longbottom, who this humble reporter is told takes the highest grade in Herbology seen in the past fifty years.

It is well remembered that Frank Longbottom left Hogwarts and immediately joined the Auror Academy, alongside his long-time sweetheart and would-be wife, Alice Fawley. He was trained by retired auror Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, known to be one of the most effective aurors to ever stand in service. That Frank and Alice Longbottom became known as the two best aurors to ever graduate the Academy since Moody himself speaks volumes of their skills and promises that they will be remembered for their years in service to the Ministry, the Wizarding World, and justice.

But Frank Longbottom was more than just a student at Hogwarts and an auror - even an extraordinary one. He was also a friend to many - a "Hufflepuff among Gryffindors," says a former classmate of Frank's who wishes to remain anonymous. "He was easy to get along with and friendly with everyone so long as you were decent. And if you needed something, well... Frank was always there."

Exemplary student, fantastic Auror, and dear friend. All of these are titles that a man would be proud to bear as they passed through this world and into the next, but this reporter suspects that none of those are the title that Frank Longbottom would be most proud of.

Neville Longbottom, born July 30, 1980, is the surviving son of two of the greatest aurors - no, two of the greatest people - to ever live. The love and pride Frank Longbottom had for his son makes the tragedy that struck them November 1st, 1981 all the more horrific. It was that day that four Death Eaters, servants under the Dark Lord whose name must not be spoken, attacked the Longbottoms in their home. There, they tortured these two people so loved by many with a curse too vile to name, driving them into a state of pain so deep they lost the ability to function. Worse still is that they did so in the presence of their beloved son, who has been left these past fourteen years to mourn their absence.

Ther e are no memories of this night to be found that might reveal the truth of the happenings in Longbottom Mansion, but it is this reporter's belief that those Death Eaters only managed to hurt two people that night because of the efforts of Frank and Alice themselves. Two of the best aurors against four Death Eaters whose master had vanished into smoke? There is no doubt in the minds of all who take a moment to consider that even anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards could keep the two from escaping, unless their intention had been to remain. Not for glory of skill or notability as aurors, but as parents. There is no doubt in this reporter's mind that Frank and Alice Longbottom stood between their son and death and said NO .

Hogwarts professors remember those who graduated well. Students remember peers who did better than them on tests or beat them in Quidditch. Perhaps fellow aurors remember the ones who topped them in training exercises or who were chosen to train under certain mentors. But a son remembers the sacrifice that his parents made for him.

Yesterday there was an article saying farewell to Frank Longbottom and lamenting the years his son held hope. This reporter has returned early from a leave of absence to offer a heartfelt apology to Neville Longbottom, on behalf of all the staff at the Daily Prophet . It can only be assumed that the reporter who wrote said article spent their life prior to journalism living under a rock, never holding a dream in their heart or a child in their arms.

Frank Longbottom had hope. He stood between his son and death and held the hope in his heart that his actions would make a difference, and they did. Today, Neville Longbottom holds the number one spot in Herbology and is well-loved by his friends. It is this reporter's hope that he accepts the deepest of apologies for cruel words written by ignorant fools, and that he continues to hold onto hope for his mother, who survives her late husband and who must be missing him just as much as her son.

Hearing the kind of person that Frank Longbottom was, it is this humble reporter's belief that his son will carry with him the bravery his father's actions taught him that night fourteen years ago.

We must bid a farewell today to a man who was auror, student, son, friend, and father. We will bow our heads in sorrow and mourn the loss of a life cut short, but we will remember what it has taught us. Frank Longbottom never gave up hope. His son, Neville Longbottom, has never given up hope.

We, the Wizarding World, can do no less. We will never give up hope.

Hold on tight, Neville. We're here with you, and you'll get through this.

Sincerely yours,

Rita Skeeter