The younger generation knew little about the Longbottom family's history, but for older witches and wizards like Madam Pomfrey, it was all too clear.
She also knew that Barty Crouch Jr. might still be alive.
So she completely understood the sudden surge of determination in Neville.
"You can increase your training load by about twice as much," Madam Pomfrey said gently, squeezing Neville's arm. "But after every session, you must use potions to regulate your body. And, of course, don't forget your cooldown exercises."
Neville turned pale, his voice trembling. "Twice as much?"
"Yes, my dear Mr. Longbottom, you heard me correctly," Madam Pomfrey said with a sweet smile. "Even though you're exhausted today and needed potions to keep your body from breaking down, your training load can still be doubled—without harming you."
Harry looked at him. "Can you handle it?"
Neville shivered, meeting Harry's emotionless, slit-pupiled gaze.
His body was honest—it did not want to endure such intense suffering. It preferred a gradual increase, step by step, rather than this overwhelming surge of hardship.
Laziness was hard to shake.
But after a long struggle, Neville nodded and gritted his teeth. "Of course. I can do it."
Harry flicked his wand, and a parchment and quill emerged from his hat. The quill swiftly wrote a line of text. Harry signed his name at the bottom and handed the parchment to Neville.
Neville was confused but obediently accepted it. When he read the words, he sucked in a sharp breath. "Harry?"
It was practically a contract.
"Neville Longbottom promises Harry Potter that if he ever becomes hesitant or tries to quit during training, Mr. Potter has the right to use forceful methods to ensure compliance."
"Just a little insurance," Harry said.
Neville muttered, "That's kind of hurtful, you know."
But even as he complained, he didn't hesitate. He grabbed the floating quill and signed his name.
In truth, he was more worried about this than Harry was—he just hadn't thought of it himself.
Harry stowed the parchment away.
Neville had thought that from that day forward, he was entering hell.
But it wasn't until the next morning that he realized—yesterday had been paradise.
Even his favorite Herbology class couldn't lift his spirits.
By the end of the day, he was sprawled limply by the common room fireplace, completely drained. Crookshanks, displeased, pounced onto him, his heavy body making Neville yelp in pain. The cat, after a full day of playing, had been bribed by Harry with two pounds of owl treats to act as Neville's masseur.
Lactic acid buildup still had to be dealt with the old-fashioned way.
Ron was rather amused.
Thank Merlin I didn't get carried away and ask Harry to teach me sword fighting, he thought. Looking at Neville now… my instincts were right.
Neville was visibly losing weight.
On Saturday, he finally got a break. Harry gave him the day off from training so he'd have the strength to go to Diagon Alley with his grandmother and buy a new wand.
With no interruptions, Neville slept deeply, snoring so loudly that Ron and the others had to put Silencing Charms on themselves just to sleep.
Even Hedwig had been driven to Hermione's dormitory for the night. Baus couldn't enter the girls' dormitory, so he had no choice but to retreat to the owlery alone.
Saturday Morning – 8:00 AM
Aside from Harry and his friends, the common room was empty.
Hedwig yawned, watching the hardworking delivery owls drop The Daily Prophet and The Quibbler in front of her owner. She hadn't slept well in the girls' dormitory either—Crookshanks had kept trying to swat at her.
Cats always got extra mischievous at night.
"Harry, you still read second-rate newspapers?" Ron asked, rubbing his face before going back to his Potions essay.
"The Prophet is still useful," Hermione shook her head. "At least it serves as the voice of the Ministry. Aside from being biased against Harry, its other news is decent."
"Like today," Harry said, spreading the paper open.
A massive photograph dominated most of the page—showing the wreckage of yet another disaster at the Ministry of Magic. After Harry's own destruction of the Ministry, another devastating attack had taken place. The elevators were wrecked, seven or eight Aurors were injured. Fortunately, no one had died.
But the Unforgivable Curses had been used.
One Auror had been tortured into unconsciousness and was now in St. Mungo's Hospital.
"Looks like Fudge is really unpopular," Ron said after reading the article, enjoying the drama. "His approval rating is going to drop again."
"I should be grateful the Ministry didn't blame me for this," Harry said flatly.
Hermione nodded in agreement.
"'Potter Secretly Manipulates Gryffindor Followers to Storm the Ministry'?" Ron mused, trying to come up with a headline.
Harry shook his head. "That's not how proper sensationalism works. If The Prophet wants to stay safe, they'll only tie this to the Order of the Phoenix. If they drag all of Gryffindor into it, their building will be torn apart."
"I guess I don't have a future as a journalist," Ron sighed.
Harry tapped the table. "What's interesting about this attack is where they broke in."
"The Department of Mysteries," he said.
Ron shrugged. "That makes sense. My dad always said the Department of Mysteries is the most important division in the Ministry. It's the only important division. That's where all the valuable stuff is."
"But their target is unusual," Harry said, pointing at a specific phrase. "Look at this."
"'Prophecy orb'?" Ron read aloud.
Harry nodded.
Ron frowned. "What's that?"
"We saw one in third year," Hermione reminded him.
Ron looked even more confused.
Saw one?
When?
This was the first time he could recall ever hearing that term.
"Professor Trelawney made a real prophecy," Hermione said, shifting uncomfortably. "Ministry officials came to collect it."
Ron suddenly remembered and smacked his leg. "Oh! Yeah, Dad said all prophecies get stored by the Ministry. So those are the 'prophecy orbs'?"
Hermione nodded.
"Still seems weird. Prophecy orbs aren't that valuable," Ron said, furrowing his brows. "If they wanted to know the prophecy, couldn't they just ask someone? I remember lots of people knew about it."
Harry shook his head. "It's different."
"Prophecies have magic in them. Prophecy orbs aren't just storage devices—they're manifestations of the prophecy itself."
"They don't just want the words—they want the actual prophecy."
He paused for a moment. "Of course, there's another possibility."
Ron and Hermione listened closely.
"Voldemort doesn't actually know the entire prophecy from fifteen years ago," Harry explained.
Both of them were shocked.
"He doesn't?" Ron asked. "But didn't he… you know… because of the prophecy…?"
Harry nodded. "He only knew the first few lines—that someone born at the end of July would be his downfall. But the prophecy didn't stop there. There's more."
He hesitated. "I only know the general meaning. Dumbledore didn't tell me the exact words, but that's not important."
"In nearly twenty years, there have only been two real prophecies. Their target is probably one of them."
Hermione scooted closer, leaning on Harry's arm to read the paper. "If they're after the prophecy from fifteen years ago, then these attackers are Death Eaters."
"If they're after the third-year prophecy, they're also probably Death Eaters," Harry confirmed.
Ron tilted his head. "Wasn't that one about Sirius?"
Harry was about to answer when his expression suddenly sharpened.
"Wait," he muttered, holding up a hand. "Someone's coming."
From faint footsteps only he could hear, to ones clear enough for Ron and Hermione—two people were approaching, their voices cheerful.
"Harry! Good morning!"
It was Fred and George.
They leapt down the steps with bright grins, raising their arms dramatically.
"Are you ready?"
"It's Hogwarts' weekend!"
"A Saturday morning!"
"And we're the only five awake—unacceptable!"
"Harry, it's time to shock Hogwarts!"
"Let's start this morning with a bang!
Ron and Hermione stared blankly at the wild pair.
"What are you two doing?" Hermione asked, baffled.
Harry answered for them.
"Bombs. Alchemical bombs."
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Powerstones?
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