Neville gripped his sword tightly, his robes drenched in sweat. His gaze was steady and heavy as he stared at Harry.
This was the seventeenth time he had "died."
"That's enough." Harry sheathed his sword.
Neville shook his head, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to speak through ragged breaths. "I can still go on!"
"You've made the same mistake three times now." Harry raised three fingers. "Is your brain still working?"
Neville's expression wavered in confusion.
Harry continued in a quiet voice, "For the past three rounds, I've used the same strategy to kill you."
"Spell assault."
"Sword harassment."
"And finally, a Killing Curse—of course, I used an Impediment Jinx instead, just changing its color and magical properties."
He paused slightly, looking at Neville. "Do you remember how you reacted those three times?"
Neville's face paled.
He did remember.
Each time, his responses had been almost identical—dueling Harry in spellwork, then in swordplay, only to be knocked down, unable to dodge, forced to take the final, fatal curse head-on.
"There's no growth, Neville." Harry shook his head. "At this rate, no matter how many times we repeat this, you won't improve. Rest. Use your brain."
Neville took a deep breath and nodded. He slid his sword back into its sheath, intending to hand it to Harry.
"I don't want your birthday gift." Harry pushed it back.
Neville froze.
Harry's voice was as calm as the snowy night outside.
"A sword that hasn't been stained with blood is not a true sword."
Neville gripped the sheath tightly and slung it over his back. He nodded heavily.
Harry turned to the other two spectators. "Do either of you want to join?"
Ron shrank back slightly, glancing at Neville's robes, which were soaked in layers of blood. He was just about to refuse—
But Hermione had already stepped forward. "Of course."
She didn't hesitate.
Harry glanced at her but didn't refuse.
No true Gryffindor would back down. Even if Ron wanted to step away, it wasn't out of fear—just the thought that maybe this wasn't necessary.
Harry drew his sword again.
"Harry, you said this was combat training." Hermione eyed the sword in his hand with disapproval.
Harry returned the wooden sword and drew the Sword of Gryffindor.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Hermione took a deep breath and raised her wand.
"Then I'll begin." Harry warned her before flicking his wand.
Mist coiled around them.
Thick, milky-white fog swept in, swallowing the room's only light source. The oil lamp, already dim, barely illuminated anything now.
There was light, but nothing was visible.
Hermione inhaled deeply, raising her wand to her chest.
She had seen this before—this moment was burned into her memory.
Second year, when Harry had dueled Snape, he had used this exact spell.
How had Professor Snape countered it?
One thing was for sure—Snape hadn't foolishly wasted a "Finite Incantatem."
"Expecto Patronum."
She murmured the spell.
A silver lioness leaped from the tip of her wand, padding quietly to the floor. A magical construct's sensitivity to magic was far stronger than a wizard's—it narrowed its eyes, growling lowly in one direction, fur bristling.
A threat. A serious one.
Flames roared to life.
Hermione swept her wand, sending a wall of fire rolling toward the source of danger, hoping to burn away the mist—and her enemy.
"You guessed wrong."
Harry's voice came from another direction.
Emerging with him were multiple transfigured creatures, lunging toward Hermione.
"No, I didn't."
Hermione spread her free hand.
Whoosh!Whoosh!
Two streaks of light shot forward—
Weasley's Wizard Wheezes fireworks erupted in front of her, exploding like a porcupine's spines. The fiery sparks struck Harry, igniting the creeping vines he had conjured.
Neville was stunned.
That's an option?!
Compared to Hermione, his own combat strategy seemed too stiff and rigid.
"Don't compare yourself to her."
Ron leaned over. "Hermione takes Professor Potter's dueling lessons very seriously. She's written so many essays on spells that she could build a house for Crookshanks out of them. She's analyzed nearly every spell he's taught."
"Then I need to borrow those essays." Neville clenched his fists.
Not only was he weaker, he hadn't worked nearly as hard.
And here he thought he had been dedicated.
Ron rummaged through his bag. "I've got copies."
The duel in the classroom continued.
Hermione's strategy was clever, but the execution was only somewhat effective. The sparks from the fireworks burned through Harry's robes, but not his armor. The snakehide cuirass beneath was resistant to weak magical flames.
As for the transfigured creatures—
A year ago, they might have been troublesome for Harry.
But now?
After his transformation into an Animagus, his spellwork had evolved. A simple wave of his wand, and the wooden vines shuddered—
Turning into iron chains.
In the blink of an eye, Hermione was bound.
"It's over," Neville murmured.
That's how it had been when he fought Harry—
One misstep, and whether it was a transfiguration spell or a binding curse, the moment he was immobilized, it was over.
Ron seemed to agree.
But Hermione didn't.
"Bombarda!"
Without hesitation, she cast the Blasting Curse—
Boom!
The explosion roared through the room.
But she hadn't aimed at Harry—
She had aimed at herself.
She had precisely controlled the blast—enough to shatter her iron restraints, but not enough to injure herself beyond minor burns.
"Stupefy!"
The moment the smoke cleared, a red Stunning Spell shot forward.
Harry's face remained blank.
The spell crashed into his Protego Totalum—golden ripples shimmered across his shield.
He flicked his wand.
A potion bottle that had been falling toward his feet froze midair, hovering up to his hand.
With his other hand, he swung his sword—stopping just before it touched Hermione's throat.
"Now, it's over."
Neville stared in shock.
Harry quickly lowered his sword and pulled Hermione from the smoke, tending to her wounds—nothing serious, just a slight burn on her arm where the explosion had ruptured the shackles. He applied dittany and handed her a healing potion.
"Hermione." Harry sighed, dragging out her name.
"The gap in skill is too wide—I had to try something." Hermione hissed through her teeth.
"It made you very Gryffindor." Harry meticulously applied the dittany.
"I am a Gryffindor." Hermione huffed.
Harry lightly tapped her on the head. "Rest. I need to think about how to teach you proper combat."
Hermione conjured a chair and sat down.
Harry turned to the last person. "Ron."
He didn't ask if Ron wanted to fight.
At this point, Ron had no choice.
Hermione sat down.
Neville looked around, taking several deep breaths before turning to her.
"Hermione, why did you do that at the end?"
"Why?" Hermione blinked. "There's no special reason."
"If I had to give one—Harry told us to treat him like an enemy."
"When facing an enemy, you do whatever it takes to win. Being captured is when they let their guard down the most. If I could take a small injury in exchange for a chance to end the fight, it would be worth it."
She sighed. "But Harry never lets his guard down."
Neville stared at her.
He had thought he had more conviction than Hermione.
But now?
He wasn't so sure.
"You're not afraid?" Neville asked hesitantly.
Hermione gave him a puzzled look. "Afraid of what?"
Neville fumbled for words. He didn't know what he was afraid of—he just felt it.
"You're not afraid of getting hurt," Hermione analyzed calmly. "Harry's a bit ruthless, but given your current situation, you need to be pushed this hard."
"Are you afraid of hurting Harry? Or of actually killing him by accident?"
"Relax, we're nowhere near that level."
"You've dueled Harry so many times, and you haven't even managed to crack his Protego Totalum."
Neville remained silent.
Hermione tapped her chin thoughtfully. "So that's not it either. Then—what are you afraid of?"
"Are you worrying about the enemies you'll have to face in the future?"
"Barty Crouch Jr.?"
Neville shuddered involuntarily.
He couldn't remember that night—his grandmother and uncle had cast memory charms on him, extracting those memories from his mind. But the image of his parents, left mindless and broken, was burned into him forever.
He reached into his pocket, clutching a piece of candy wrapper.
"You are afraid of him." Hermione nodded in understanding. "That's why you're hesitating."
Neville clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply. "I'm not afraid of him!"
Ron got beaten up badly.
Though he had been in just as many lessons as Hermione, he had never been as meticulous in his studies. Even with all his effort, the best he could do was last a few seconds longer.
"Harry." Neville stood up, drawing his sword. "I'm ready."
Harry grabbed Ron—lifting him the way Hagrid handled Fang—then turned back.
"Are you really ready?"
Neville nodded.
Harry let go of Ron.
A few herb seeds slipped from Neville's palm, scattering unnoticed.
At the perfect moment, vines erupted from the floor, twisting and curling toward Harry—Devil's Snare.
No warning. No hesitation.
Harry nodded approvingly. "That's more like it. We're enemies."
There's no politeness in a battle to the death.
No bows. No greetings. No honorable declarations.
A real fight means discarding everything unnecessary.
Using your wand, your sword, your fists, your teeth—anything—to kill your opponent.
To let the flames of vengeance burn your enemy to ash.
Neville was no longer hesitating.
And so—
He got beaten even worse.
By the end, Harry had to carry him out of the abandoned classroom.
"It's over?" Filch was already waiting outside. He greeted Harry casually, "Professor Black almost came to check it out—I barely managed to talk him down."
Mrs. Norris wasn't with him. Ever since the pet-killing incidents, Filch had been on edge. He had entrusted Mrs. Norris to Crookshanks, keeping her in the girls' dormitory, near Hermione and Harry, where he felt she would be safest.
"Thanks." Harry nodded.
Without wasting time, they rushed upstairs—straight to the hospital wing.
It was a long night, and Madam Pomfrey wouldn't be getting much sleep.
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Powerstones?
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