Neville Shouts Loudly

"A brand-new school year."

These words made the older students uneasy. They always felt that when Dumbledore said them, he really meant, "Another crisis is coming." What terrifying event would unfold in the castle this time?

Last year…

Much had been overshadowed by the Triwizard Tournament and the Little Hangleton Massacre.

It had seemed like a festive occasion on the surface, but in reality, it was terrifying upon reflection. Each school year had been more dangerous than the last.

When Harry Potter first started at Hogwarts, it had been just one rogue Dark wizard. In his second year, Lockhart had been sacrificed. Third year, they were surrounded by Dementors, but at least only one person had died.

But fourth year?

Barty Crouch Sr. was dead, Ludo Bagman and Karkaroff were missing—presumed dead. The conspiracy against Harry Potter had cost twelve lives.

And this year?

They hated the word "brand-new."

What new trouble would come looking for Harry Potter?

Dumbledore led the students in a half-hearted singing of the school song, and then the prefects guided the first-years to their dormitories.

Just as Harry had expected, Gryffindor's new female prefect was Parvati Patil. She was intelligent and outstanding—among the witches in their year, only Hermione was better. She was just as talented as her twin sister in Ravenclaw.

Lavender scowled, her features twisted in displeasure. Why wasn't I chosen? Why was it her—someone who was smarter, prettier, and more charming than her, only losing out when it came to curves?

Little Ronnie is going to be stolen away.

Ron, however, was thoroughly enjoying himself. He had never felt so noticed before. First-years surrounded him, asking endless questions, and he patiently answered them all, putting his experience with his younger sister to good use.

After two months apart, old friends reunited, filling the common room with lively chatter until nearly one in the morning, when the last group finally tiptoed off to bed.

Only Harry, Hermione, and Ron remained.

"The term just started, can't you relax a little?" Ron yawned, his voice hoarse. "Still studying?"

"This year, we have our O.W.L.s!" Hermione said anxiously. "It's important, Ron! You need to take it seriously—you're a prefect, you need to set a good example."

Ron clutched his chest in mock pain. "Hermione, you sound just like Professor McGonagall."

Hermione shot him a glare.

Ron shrank back and mumbled, "You're definitely going to be a great Head of Gryffindor someday."

"It's a shame I have to wait until after graduation," Hermione sighed.

Ron avoided her gaze and turned to Harry. "What about you, Harry? O.W.L.s won't be hard for you—are you studying too?"

"I'm waiting for someone," Harry replied, glancing toward the dormitory entrance.

A slightly stocky figure crept toward them.

"Neville?" Ron followed Harry's gaze. Though he couldn't see the face clearly, there weren't many students with that build at Hogwarts. In Gryffindor, there was only one Neville.

"It's me." Neville nodded and hurried over, sitting across from them.

"I thought you'd fallen asleep and wouldn't come tonight," Harry said, closing his book and sitting up straight. "So, tell me—why did you ask to meet me?"

Hermione also closed her book and sat attentively.

"Is it true that Barty Crouch Jr. is still alive?" Neville asked—a question he had already asked multiple times over the past two months.

Harry nodded. "We haven't found him, but all the clues and evidence point to one fact—he's still alive."

"Where is he?" Neville pressed. "I mean, where could he be?"

Harry shook his head. "Who knows? He's cunning. He could be in the Ministry of Magic, by Voldemort's side… or preparing something else for his master."

Neville took a deep breath. "Harry, I want you to teach me."

"I can endure hardship! I'll do anything!"

"Please, teach me. I don't expect to become as strong as you—"

Harry interrupted, "You want to kill Barty Crouch Jr. yourself?"

Neville shook his head. For the first time, his voice and expression turned firm. "No. Not just him. Bellatrix Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange."

"All four of them. I want to personally take revenge. I want to kill them myself."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a neat stack of candy wrappers. The one at the bottom was old, faded, and worn with age. The one on top was new—Harry could still smell the faint, sweet scent of the candy.

"I've always been a scatterbrain," Neville murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking to them and himself at the same time. "Clumsy, forgetful."

"I've had no conviction, no determination. I've been terrible at everything."

"But these… these, I have never lost. I've carried them with me, always. Not once, not a single one."

Harry extended his hand.

Neville hesitated, then carefully placed the stack of candy wrappers in Harry's palm.

Harry smiled faintly and gently returned them. "I don't want these. I want your wand—give me your wand."

Realization dawned on Neville. He put the candy wrappers away and pulled out his wand.

It was an old wand—far older than Neville himself.

Harry took it.

A faint resistance pulsed from the wand, but it didn't last long. Soon, it became docile in his grasp.

"Oak, dragon heartstring, twelve inches," Harry murmured.

Neville nodded.

"This isn't your wand, is it?" Harry asked.

"It was my father's," Neville said softly. "His wand."

Harry handed it back. The oak wand seemed to rejoice as it returned to Neville's grip, swirling around his wrist like an affectionate pet.

"This wand likes you," Harry observed, his gaze deep.

Neville clutched the wand tightly. "I like it too."

"But it's not suited for you," Harry stated bluntly.

Neville didn't reply—he only gripped the wand harder.

"Oak is one of the most loyal wand woods," Hermione recited from memory. "It stands by its owner through every triumph and hardship, just like a knight to his lord."

Neville bowed his head. "It's a good wand."

"Don't you see?" Harry tapped the table. "Hermione just explained it. This wand likes you. It tries its best to work with you. But it never truly belonged to you."

"It has always been your father's wand."

Neville looked up at Harry.

"You inherited its protection and loyalty toward your father. But you never inherited it."

"No matter how well you cooperate, it can't unleash your full potential."

Tears shimmered in Neville's eyes.

Harry rested his head on his hand. "Professor Snape—he's a bastard, and you know why he always singles you out the worst?"

"Because I'm terrible at Potions," Neville muttered.

Harry shook his head. "No—it's because he's an asshole."

Neville blinked.

"His mouth is filthier than a troll's bathroom. He's lost the ability to speak kindly to anyone."

Hermione nudged Harry in the ribs.

"And because he's biased against Gryffindors," Harry continued. "Slytherins wish our tower would collapse and crush us all."

Neville nearly laughed.

Harry became serious. "But most of all, it's because he hates wasted potential. He loathes those who have ability but keep failing at even the simplest things."

Neville hesitated, pointing at himself. "Me? I have ability?"

Harry nodded. "Of course. You and Hagrid both—you don't see your own worth. You insist on thinking you're useless."

Neville still looked uncertain.

"Professor Sprout said your Herbology skills match mine," Harry said. "In fact, you're better than me—and better than Cedric."

Neville opened his mouth but hesitated. "That's my only strength…"

"Then fix it," Harry challenged. "Get a new wand. Then challenge me—beat me black and blue with your spells."

Neville finally understood. He nodded firmly.

Harry grinned. "I train at 4:30 AM every morning. I could use a sparring partner."

Neville's face lit up. He nodded enthusiastically.

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Powerstones?

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