Chapter 12
Harry hesitated on the doorstep of Neville's house. It appeared modest, normal - not something a family named one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight might have. Then again, Harry supposed Grimmauld Place didn’t look like much from the outside.
He knocked carefully, wondering what exactly he was hoping to achieve here.
“The odd thing, Harry,” Dumbedore said softly, “is that it may not have meant you at all. Sybill’s prophecy could have applied to two wizard boys, both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom.”
The door opened, and a woman as stern-looking as Walburga Black blinked down at him. Harry opened his mouth, but she spoke first.
“Well, if it isn’t The Boy Who Lived,” she said. She beckoned him inside, chivvying him down an oak-panelled corridor into a cavernous living room and snapping her fingers. Harry saw a uniformed House Elf pop into existence and almost as quickly vanish.
“You employ Elves,” he said stupidly. “As workers, not servants.”
“Yes, boy, the Longbottoms are no fans of the old ways. Sit, sit. Neville!” She shouted.
Neville - taller and broader than Harry recalled, a man now and no longer the awkward boy he had come to know - galloped down the stairs. “Yes, Gran,” he said, before catching sight of Harry and stopping. “Harry?” He asked.
“Hi,” Harry said, relieved to have been recognised. “Hi, Neville. How are you?”
“Good,” Neville said, sinking down onto a leather chesterfield and eyeing him. “I think - I think I’m good. It’s going to be pretty chaotic for a while, but it’s - it’s over.” He squinted. “What happened to you?”
Harry smiled half-heartedly. “What do you know about the Prophecy?” He asked instead. Neville’s grandmother sat down with them at that, and Neville frowned.
“The one from the Ministry? Not much. I knew it had to be important to Tom for him to go to those lengths to get it,” Neville said. “And people name their kids after what Seers say. The Wizarding World takes that sort of thing pretty seriously.”
Harry - who had always felt that Neville was the best at explaining the Wizarding World’s normal customs to him without making him feel totally stupid - appreciated this piece of information more than he knew how to say. “Did you ever hear it?” He asked, looking at Augusta. Both she and Neville shook their heads.
Harry closed his eyes and recited slowly, “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…” He opened his eyes. Augusta was staring at him.
“But that - that’s -”
“Yes.”
“What?” Neville asked.
Augusta’s colour was wan. “Your parents had fought Tom three times by the time you were born,” she said, aiming for briskness and achieving only a minor shake to her voice. “With the Order of the Phoenix. And you were born -”
“On the thirtieth of July,” Neville finished, eyes wide. “So - so I should have been -?”
“No,” Harry said. “Wait for the rest.” He closed his eyes again, running through the words he had memorised. “The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.”
Neville covered his mouth. “It could have been me. He chose you.”
“He chose me,” Harry agreed, remembering having the same conversation with Dumbledore. “And in marking me with that scar, he gave me powers, and a future. He gave me the means to destroy him. The night that prophecy was made, it was also put into motion. It was overheard, and reported back to him, and he chose his target. I got the blood protection and the shard of his soul, and he was temporarily destroyed… because of the prophecy.”
Augusta sniffed. “These things are often self-fulfilling,” she said. “Divination is a very circular kind of magic.”
“That could have been me,” Neville whispered. “Harry, I’m so sorry.”
“No,” Harry said automatically. “I’m not - that’s not why I’m here, Neville. There were three of us.”
Augusta’s interest returned. “Three?” She asked sharply.
“Three,” Harry confirmed tiredly. “Neville Frank Longbottom… Henry James Potter… and Harry Ignatius Black.”
There was a stunned silence in the ostentatious room, finally broken by the appearance of the tiniest House Elf Harry had ever seen. Evidently sensing the atmosphere, it didn’t speak - only squeaked fearfully, deposited a tea tray, and popped out of sight.
“Black,” Neville said slowly. “As in… Sirius?”
“His nephew,” Harry replied.
“So where is - oh, Merlin. You’re - you’re not Harry Potter.”
Augusta scoffed. “Those are Black cheekbones if ever I saw them,” she said briskly. “Harry Black, then. So it was you who Tom marked that night, was it?”
Harry nodded meekly. “He didn’t know. No-one knew - I found out two days ago.”
“So there is no Harry Potter,” Neville said. “Where is - where are the Potters?”
“Safe,” Harry said. “I don’t know. Abroad, probably. Apparently, I’m named after your great-great-uncle, or something.”
“Harfang?” Augusta asked sharply. “He married into the Black family generations ago. Two children, I believe, but no grandchildren.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “Luckily, Regulus christened me Harry, though.”
Neville caught his eye and snorted. Augusta sniffed, but there was a twinkle of amusement in her eye.
“Neville, I really wanted to tell you all this because… because of who my mother is. I haven’t got used to the idea yet, I’m still - I - I just wanted you to hear it from me.”
“It’s Bellatrix, isn’t it.” Neville smiled sadly. “There’s no-one else you would want to see me in person for. And the Blacks have a habit of doing strange things with their cousins.” He laughed bitterly. “She didn’t raise you, Harry. I don’t love it, and I still hate her… but she’s dead and gone now. You are who you are. That hasn’t changed. Give me some time and I’ll get over it.” He stood up abruptly. “Your parents aren’t who you thought they were. Mine are - well, you know how mine are. I always felt some kinship with you, Harry… we were almost the same. In a lot of ways, we still are.” He held out his hand.
Harry shook it, stunned. “I wish I had seen you become who you are now, Neville. You’ve done incredible things this year.”
Neville clapped him on the shoulder and walked out, back towards the stairs. Harry sighed.
“He’ll come round,” Augusta said. “He means what he said, he just needs time to feel it as well.”
Harry nodded. “I know,” he said. “I know.”