The hospital wing was crowded even in the dead of night.
Madam Pomfrey had just finished tending to the last patient, replacing their bandages. She watched as the students either fell asleep or pretended to, then raised her wand, intending to retire for some rest.
From midnight until noon was the only time she could get any sleep.
Just as she stepped out of the patient ward—
The door swung open.
Her heart clenched.
It was curfew. The castle was silent. No one should be here. If someone was here, it meant something serious had happened.
Her mind jumped—
Back to second year.
To the things that had happened back then.
Several figures entered.
She immediately raised her wand, casting Lumos to illuminate their faces.
Relief flooded her chest. It wasn't a professor. It was Harry and his friends.
"Harry, what on earth—?"
Then she saw Neville.
Or rather, she saw Neville flying into the room, propelled by magic.
The breath she had just exhaled came rushing back in so fast it choked her. Her face tinged purple.
"Longbottom—? Another Dark wizard in the castle?!"
"Did you notify the professors?!"
She raised her wand, about to summon her Patronus.
"No Dark wizards," Harry said. "He's just… exhausted."
"Not an attack?" Madam Pomfrey eyed Neville skeptically, scanning his tattered robes and bruised face. "Are you sure?"
"This bed will do."
"This side is less crowded."
She pulled back the curtains and lit an oil lamp.
Her voice, like her expression, was filled with doubt. Neville looked far too battered—covered in wounds of various sizes, his robes in tatters, parts of them completely burned away, beyond even the repair of a Reparo charm.
Harry looked better, but his robes bore irreparable slashes as well.
Ron and Hermione also seemed like they had been through a battle.
Once Harry set Neville down, Madam Pomfrey waved her wand, carefully inspecting him.
"It looks bad, but it's mostly superficial."
"He's just utterly drained. Were you training at this hour?"
Harry nodded. "Combat training."
"Combat?" Madam Pomfrey instinctively shook her head, sighing. She wanted to dismiss their words outright—there was no way the professors, or the Order, would let students face those murderous Death Eaters.
But the words got stuck in her throat.
Of course, Hermione and Ron would be kept safe.
But Harry…
Harry had already faced Death Eaters before.
And Neville—he would seek them out himself.
A child avenging his parents—no one could stop that. Not his enemies. Not even his allies.
She sighed heavily.
"There's no need to be so…"
Harsh?
That was the word she had been about to use.
But it wasn't right.
"Being strict with him is a good thing." Harry spoke before she could find a replacement.
"If he suffers now, under my hand—when he faces Crouch, he'll have a better chance of surviving."
"You really mean to have Longbottom face him?" Madam Pomfrey looked at him.
Barty Crouch Jr. was young, but his methods were brutal.
For the Dark Lord to trust him so deeply, it wasn't just about cruelty. He had value. He couldn't manipulate his father, so the only thing Voldemort could have seen in him was his talent. His power.
And in her mind, Neville Longbottom had never been talented.
Compared to Barty Crouch Jr., compared to even Ron Weasley, Neville fell short.
"He's made up his mind." Harry nodded.
"He's doing everything he can to prepare."
"No one knows what the future holds."
"But if this is the future he chooses, then no one has the right to stop him."
Madam Pomfrey said nothing, continuing her examination to ensure there were no hidden injuries.
Ron tiptoed around the ward, disappearing for a moment before returning, his face lit up with excitement.
"All the patients are Slytherins! What happened?!"
He was a Prefect!
If there had been a fight between Gryffindor and Slytherin—one where Gryffindor had completely won—he would have heard about it.
Of course, if it had been Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff against Slytherin, Gryffindors would have found a way to join in.
"Mr. Weasley, patients should rest! Stop wandering around and disturbing them!" Madam Pomfrey shot him a glare, then paused, lowering her voice.
"Slytherins were fighting again last night."
"This has been happening since last year, but it's worsening."
"Their Prefect, Mr. Malfoy, used your brothers' joke products to beat a group of them senseless."
She paused, lowering her voice even more.
"Of course, he got payback. He's in there too. Snape is furious—he hasn't seen a Prefect brawling like this in years."
"Malfoy is in there?" Ron straightened, nostrils flaring, attempting to look sympathetic.
But the moment his lips curled, it was over.
He couldn't suppress his grin.
Madam Pomfrey nodded. "He's the most injured."
"And I had to separate him from the others. They went too far—they even dared to attack their own Prefect."
Ron could barely sit still.
He wanted to see Malfoy.
To see how miserable he looked.
But Madam Pomfrey flicked her wand, drawing the curtains tight around them.
"You stay here and rest."
"No sneaking off."
"If you're injured, you act like it! Stop hopping around like a hyperactive pixie!"
With another flick of her wand—
Ron and Hermione's chairs warped.
Crude, stick-figure-like wooden arms grabbed them, lifting them up and tucking them into hospital beds.
Their shoes were removed, their blankets tucked around them.
"Mr. Potter."
Madam Pomfrey looked at Harry.
Harry sighed, then lay down on the bed beside Hermione's.
Satisfied, Madam Pomfrey left.
But they had barely begun to doze off when—
Shouting erupted outside.
Neville instinctively grabbed his wand.
Harry flipped over, snapped his fingers—Protego Totalum surrounded himself.
Protego surrounded Hermione.
Then a wide-area Protego Maxima enveloped their section of the room.
Bangs, yells, curses—
Harry sensed it clearly.
Dark charms. Minor jinxes.
Two fifth-year Slytherins—
Attempting to ambush Malfoy.
But Malfoy had clearly expected it. Though he got hit by a curse, he immediately fought back.
Minutes later—
Madam Pomfrey's furious voice rang out.
"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"
A sharp flick of her wand—
All three students were bound by Transfiguration magic.
"Out of bed! Attacking a Prefect?! A patient?!"
"Slytherin, fifty points deducted!"
"Get out! Find Filch! One month of detention!"
Through the curtain, Harry could sense it—
As she released the spell and prepared to throw the two Slytherins out—
"Engorgio Skull!"
Malfoy's voice.
A burst of cold magic.
"MR. MALFOY!" Madam Pomfrey roared.
"HOW DARE YOU?! USING A CURSE ON YOUR OWN HOUSEMATES?!"
"Slytherin—ANOTHER FIFTY POINTS!"
"Once you recover, you're also getting detention with Filch—A MONTH!"
Malfoy said nothing.
His breathing was steady.
It was the other two whose breaths turned ragged with fear.
"Malfoy doesn't hold back," Ron muttered.
Harry waved a hand.
"Go to sleep."
He reinforced the wards—adding a soundproofing charm.
Neville, meanwhile, wasn't sleeping.
He counted spells in his head.
Engorgio Skull.
Not common.
Perhaps—he should consider learning some unorthodox spells?
Neville, meanwhile, wasn't sleeping.
He counted spells in his head.
Engorgio Skull.
Not common.
Perhaps—he should consider learning some unorthodox spells?
The spells in textbooks were effective, yes—but precisely because they were so well-known, there were also countless ways to counter them.
Maybe he should explore the lesser-used, rarely-encountered spells?
Like Levicorpus?
That one was well-known within certain circles. Back in first and second year, when he had been bullied by Slytherins, they had often used it to humiliate him, leaving him dangling upside down.
Or perhaps… Entrail-Expelling Curse?
A dark spell, but highly effective. Even Harry would struggle to counteract an internal organ attack, wouldn't he?
Of course—that was if he could land the hit.
That was always the hardest part of dueling Harry—not what spell to use, but how to make it connect.
Neville muttered the names of curses under his breath, counting them off on his fingers.
At some point, he finally drifted into sleep—only waking up near noon.
"Good morning, Ron," he mumbled sleepily, greeting the only person left behind in the curtained-off area.
"It's afternoon," Ron corrected, snapping his book shut. "Harry and Hermione already went to the library. You'll probably catch them in the Great Hall later."
Neville blinked in surprise.
"Wait—it's already noon?"
"Harry didn't wake me up?"
Ron's expression was blank.
"Harry said he'd spare you during the day." He paused. "But he's planning a 'big surprise' for tonight."
A big surprise.
Neville took a deep breath.
He did not feel excited.
Instead, an uneasy chill crawled up his spine.
Sunday night, Neville felt nothing of the usual weekend relaxation.
But—he did gain something.
By the time training started that evening, he was finally able to properly hold his ground against Harry, exchanging blows in a way that felt like a real fight.
Slowly but surely, spells beyond the standard curriculum emerged from his wand—clumsy at first, but improving.
His coordination between wand and sword was also falling into place.
But—
He had only been training for two months.
The gap between him and Harry was enormous—whether in physical ability, magical power, or combat experience.
Ironically, because he had improved just enough, it only made him look more pathetic.
That night—
Neville "died" twenty-three times.
Each death was different.
And just like the previous night, he was so exhausted by the end that even moving his eyes felt like too much effort.
November passed with Neville barely clinging to life.
Snow blanketed the castle.
December arrived.
A week before Christmas—
A pink envelope, carried by Hedwig, landed right in front of Harry.
It was a letter.
From Rita Skeeter.
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Powerstones?
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