66.A Glimpse of the Summit

6th of September 1994, Tuesday (3 days later)

Harry Potter

Power throbbed as the air itself was alight by spellfire. Curled in his fingers, his wand sang with joy.

Dozens of jagged shards of ice rushed his way. He could feel the chill coalescing into the frost, melding seamlessly into the magic. Harry was undaunted. Back ramrod straight, he stabbed his wand like a sword, shattering them midway.

He ducked under a purple curse, caught a Finger-Twisting Jinx with the tip of his wand and flung it back at Amelia, followed by a Piercing Curse that cracked her shield. As usual, she was relentless in her onslaught, but Harry Potter was not the same young boy he had been a year ago. 

Today, he could feel his own magic was even slightly better in quality and quantity, a boon of the summer ritual and his own efforts. But Amelia Bones was still half an idea swifter and had far more experience than he did.

It only made the fight sweeter. 

His wand eagerly devoured all the magic poured into it, blurring as it erupted, meeting curses with curses. Twice, he had undid her Quagmire Hex by overwhelming it with his own magic, and the third time, he had managed to reflect it back at her. 

A Babbling Hex here and a Twisted Nightmare there, a quick transfiguration to turn the ground beneath her feet into sand with blades of wind immediately after, only to have his own sand thrown into his face, half turned into icicles. Ice met fire, and there he won that clash, but not decisively. 

The air slowly filled with ribbons of steam.

Between some curses, he added an extra flick of his wand, jolting pieces of granite and splinters of wood at Amelia from the floor, but she always twisted out of the way or brushed them away with a sharp flourish.

The Deputy Headmistress was the fiercest opponent he had faced, bar none. Voldemort didn’t count—each time they had fought in the past, the Dark Lord had been toying with him. He had already squeezed out most of Amelia’s trump cards and tricks in the last year, so she could no longer pull a sudden upset like the frigid ghost. 

Yet the more he pressed, the more serious she grew. Bone-Breakers, Blood-Freezing curses, and worse spells still rushed his way as the fight grew feverish. Not enough to kill, but too dangerous to underestimate. He dared not risk deflecting those hexes and curses, forcing him to shield and respond in kind. His piercing curses tore through her shields like paper and even drew blood where she was too slow to dodge. The more they fought, the hotter his cutting spells grew, and soon even the air began to shimmer. 

“Frigor Umbra!”

Harry twisted his wand, and the icy shade was met with a ribbon of green fire, burning away with a wail. 

‘Let me aid you,’ Nyx hissed in his mind.

‘No,’ Harry shot back, flicking his wand to deflect a Disarming Charm. ‘I want to win this on my own.’

The serpent grumbled in his mind but made no further move. Slowly, little by little, he gained the upper hand, if only slightly. He could feel magic boiling underneath his skin, eager to be unleashed. Each exchange of spells sharpened his mind and will and intent, little by little. 

This was it. 

The air crackled with power as both of them gave their all. Or as much as they could without making it a matter of life and death. It was not just a clash of magical might and wits, but of control and intent. 

Harry could have turned into his sinister phoenix form, that cheat-like bird with flames that could melt even magic and boil lesser minds alive. With some effort, he could even unleash some of its fire through his normal spells, but using that for an easy victory—no matter how tempting—would not help him grow as a wizard.

Amelia’s focus began to dip first, but not enough to lose. But then, her mind and magic began to falter—her spells came half a heartbeat slower, her shields broke easier, and she struggled to keep up. Victory was finally at hand.

A well-placed cutting curse would see her dead—

Pushing that thought away, Harry tilted his head, just barely avoiding a Petrifying Curse, and started unleashing a barrage of Disarming Charms. 

The first one was dodged, the second one cracked her shield, and the third and fourth ones were flung away, but the fifth one struck her square in the chest. Amelia Bones’s wand flew in the air in an arc, falling into Harry’s outstretched hand. 

“You won,” the Deputy Headmistress wheezed, her chest rising and falling like bellows. Her crimson hair had grown damp and dishevelled, sticking all over her face, though whether it was from the steam or the exertion of the duel, he could not say. 

“Barely,” Harry muttered, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. “It’s my endurance that won, not superior magical prowess.”

It was no true victory to exhaust his opponent.

A swipe of his wand banished the ribbons of steam and dust, clearing the air. A second flick of his wand put the shattered shards and splinters back into the walls and floor, restoring the room to its original condition.

He stepped forward, returning the wand to Amelia. She gave him a good, long look as her slender fingers took it back. Her usually loose robes of dark yellow silk were damp with sweat and clung to her body, revealing a figure that made him all the more aware that the Deputy Headmistress was a beautiful witch.

“Barely or not, a loss is a loss,” Amelia said breathlessly, her blue eyes studying him with uncomfortable intensity. “If this were a real fight, I’d be at your mercy or dead. There’s no barely in victory.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. “I already know your fighting style from the inside out, and all of your aces. If this were the first fight… it’s hard to say if I could have walked out as the victor.”

Amelia’s trembling hand adjusted her monocle. “But just as you learned how I fight, I learned how you fight, Mr Potter. Your victory was well-earned here, despite your dissatisfaction. Your intent alone has grown sharper than mine already, much to my shame. And I have not forgotten that terrible green bird.”

Harry inclined his head. “We’ll duel again next week.”

“Perhaps the weekend this time, when I don’t have other duties,” the red-haired witch said with a pained groan. “You make a witch feel old, Harry. I’m no longer as young and full of energy as I used to be.”

After giving him one last complicated look, Amelia Bones hobbled out of the classroom. Harry felt a pang of guilt as he watched the usually dignified old witch leave in such a manner. 

Juno, who had been leaning on the nearby wall, came over with an unreadable face.

“Had a good look at our beautiful Deputy Headmistress?” she asked coldly. 

“Yes,” Harry said earnestly. “Still not as pretty as you. But jealousy is unbecoming of you, Juno.”

Her lips thinned. “I can’t help it,” she whispered. “Your admirers have more than tripled this year, and that poor Hufflepuff girl keeps glaring daggers at me when she thinks I’m not looking. There’s even a French veela amongst them. Beauty is literally in her blood and magic.”

Harry waved his hand dismissively. “I beat Fleur at Corsica quite badly all those years ago. I bet she just wants to win back her dignity.”

Juno let out an amused peal of laughter. “Dignity? She’s far more likely to lose whatever dignity she had in a single duel and fall deeper into the depths of despair. I should know.” The last part was muttered quietly, but Harry caught it regardless.

“That’s why I don’t intend to fight her,” he said with a lazy shrug. “It would feel too much like bullying.”

“Besides Deputy Headmistress Bones, perhaps only Professor Flitwick and Mad-Eye Moody can give you a good challenge anymore. Them and Dumbledore. Have you decided yet?”

A last flick of his wand turned his school robes clear of dust and smoothed out any crumples, and he tucked it back into the holster. 

“Yep.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m going to Dumbledore, at least once. To see what he intends to teach me. Maybe even how he intends to deal with Voldemort, if I can pry that one out of him.”

“Good.” Juno leaned in for a deep kiss that lingered for far too long. Not that he minded. They parted far too soon. “Can I have some of your tears?”

Harry let out a groan. “I can squeeze out two, perhaps three, without Nyx’s help, but then I’ll be wasted for the rest of the day, so wait till tonight. Why do you even need them?”

“A potion experiment,” Juno said softly, though her eyes would not meet his. “My new teacher has some measure of achievement in the field of Potions and is rather demanding.”

Harry grimaced. That new mysterious teacher of hers… raised too many questions in his mind. Curiosity gnawed at him, and he badly wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew better than to pry, especially after she became an Animagus; he trusted Juno to tell him when she was ready. Or perhaps the apprenticeship had a clause of secrecy.

“But the stuff is more toxic than Basilisk venom,” he said quietly. “Far more potent, too—it seared straight through magic and stone, and it would probably do the same to any glass vial.”

Juno cocked her head. “I have brought a glazed diamond vial, so don’t worry. And all poison can be turned into medicine… in the right quantity with sufficient preparation. When do you plan on going to Dumbledore?”

“Now,” Harry said with a long sigh. “We have until the afternoon free anyway.”

One final kiss and they parted, each going their own way. Juno headed to the Forbidden Forest to forage for fresh ingredients and practise her Animagus form, while Harry steeled himself as his feet led him towards the headmaster’s office.

Not a single student glanced his way as he walked through staircases and hallways, completely unnoticed.

To his surprise, the stone gargoyle jumped aside the moment Harry stopped before it, without the need for a password. Thankfully, the headmaster was inside, already seated behind his great desk.

Dumbledore lifted his gaze from the old yellow parchment. He stared at him for a long moment, and the twinkle in his eyes only grew brighter. “Fascinating. My gaze slides over your form as if you are not there. My eyes and mind struggle to register your presence.”

“Just a measly little trick,” Harry said with a sheepish smile. “Nothing more than an experiment with magic-control.”

“A trick,” Dumbledore chortled. “There was a theoretical spell in the works in the DoM quite similar to what you have achieved, called Notice-Me-Not, but they never quite got it to work half as well as you have.”

Harry exhaled slowly, allowing his control of magic to loosen. “Not exactly a spell. I don’t think magic can be bent into a spell for this. It’s nothing more than trying to meld my magic and intent with the ambience around me.”

“Easy to say, but far harder to do,” Dumbledore murmured. In the next moment, Harry found his eyes sliding away from the headmaster as if— “Curious. Perhaps you’ve been greatly helped by the echo of the Cloak whose power you made your own. Yes, I can see how this can be quite the boon for magic control.”

‘And avoiding unwanted attention,’ Harry added mentally. 

The headmaster cleared his throat. “Anyway… I must admit I did not expect you so soon, Mr Potter. Please make yourself comfortable.”

“You were right, professor,” Harry said with a long sigh, easing himself into the high-backed chair across the desk. “I’m scarcely learning anything from the seventh-year classes. I’ve gone over most of the theory long ago—and the practice…”

Dumbledore’s mouth twitched. “Yes, a driven young man like you has hardly ever needed the basic practice classes demanded. Your earlier ‘trick’ has more than proven your ingenuity. Before we start, do you have any queries?”

“What separates a normal wizard from the likes of Voldemort… or you, sir? I read through many books, but they only mentioned that exceptional wizards reach unattainable heights, standing above all others, though not one mentioned how.” 

“Ah, straight to the point.” Dumbledore stroked his beard, voice growing solemn. “Some call us titans of magic. Others call us archmages, though the most accurate term would be… reaching the summit of sorcery, I suppose. Magic is a wonderful thing, perhaps even limitless in its capabilities, and yet few can ever wield that power. Have you wondered why?”

Harry considered for a long moment. 

“It’s the wizard and the witch who are the limit, sir,” he said. At Dumbledore’s eager nod, he continued. “Just like a first-year student struggles to wield the most basic of spells because their own magic hasn’t thickened, their mind and will are undeveloped and undisciplined.”

“Precisely. And to reach the summit, you must shatter the limit in at least three aspects. It’s not merely overcoming a bottleneck, but transcending beyond what other wizards and witches thought possible. Intent.” The air thickened with something soft and light, and Dumbledore grew, somehow filling out the whole room despite sitting on his chair. 

“Control.” Dumbledore reached out with his palm, and pure raw magic coalesced into a miniature copy of Hogwarts, buzzing with power. 

“Magic.” The castle shimmered brighter and brighter until it turned into solid stone, a life-like recreation of Hogwarts down to the very last detail. It was not even transfiguration, merely pouring power into something until it turned tangible out of sheer quality. That palm-sized castle alone held more power than Harry could muster in a day. 

“Mind.” A sharp glance from the headmaster sent his mind reeling, and cracks spread at his Occlumency shields. 

“Soul.” Harry felt his whole being engulfed by something old and dangerous… yet also kind and gentle. Any of his lingering doubts melted, and it was as if an invisible weight was lifted off his shoulder.

Yet the moment passed, and before him sat Albus Dumbledore, looking like nothing more than an eccentric old man in velvet robes striped with orange and purple.

“And body,” the headmaster said with a wry smile. “I’m afraid I don’t have much talent in that aspect.”

Harry stood there, speechless. Not much talent? He had seen the headmaster, and while he certainly lacked strength, his speed alone was matched only by Voldemort.

“I…” he struggled to find the words to express the mix of feelings swirling in his chest. Wonder, surprise, apprehension, awe, and not a small sliver of fear. “What has Voldemort transcended?”

“Magic, intent, and mind,” was the quiet answer. “He has walked on the road to magic further than I, even. His control is one step behind, and he’s as sharp as a sword in matters of the mind. But he has done something more, something different by walking on a dark, twisted path in the ways of the soul that slowly distort his sanity yet only make him more dangerous.”

This was it. Now, he had a clear direction to follow.

“Can you guide me, sir?”

Dumbledore hummed. “I can certainly try. I can give you advice, but each wizard and witch faces different obstacles when trying to transcend the limit. But from my experience, the best way to climb the summit is to start with the soul and mind. Your situation is quite… special, though.”

“How so?” Harry asked, despite dreading the answer.

“You achieved something unprecedented that should, by all rights, have failed. Your control is admirably good, and although your intent has approached the threshold, it’s easy to be twisted by your… other form if you continue that way.”

Harry swallowed his question. The phoenix. Yes, he knew something was wrong there. A phoenix it might have been called, but the creature itself was far viler, far more sinister than Fawkes could ever be and… it indeed twisted his emotions.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“When you try to use power beyond your control, you will be the one bent to it,” was the cool reply. “I’d wager Voldemort’s soul shard itself guided your phoenix form, thinking it would allow him to become truly immortal, without a care for any potential drawbacks. But Tom, in his arrogance, has always believed he could suppress whatever consequences arose by his own might since he was young. That is why my suggestion is that you ought to start with the soul and mind, the two most underestimated aspects of sorcery.” 

His words lingered between them, leaving the decision in Harry’s hands. He was no longer treated like a child. 

The softness in Dumbledore’s voice only made him feel a rush of shame. It made him feel like a petulant child indulged by his grandfather. This was the headmaster he had grown to respect so much in his last life, and yet Albus Dumbledore had never been like this in his previous life. Perhaps because Harry had never proven himself worthy of it back then. 

Perhaps he could trust this Dumbledore for real. Not fully—the knowledge would come at a cost—never fully, but… more than before.

“How do we start with mind and soul, sir?” 

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “I will assault your mind. Not to peer inside, but a test of pure pressure. The term for it is Mental Impact, derived from an ancient Chinese curse by the name of Mind Crush. I assure you, my control in this is perfect, and you won’t suffer any harm. And once your defences are shattered…”  

Afternoon came, and Harry dragged himself to the Defence classroom that looked twice as large as usual and collapsed onto one of the desks. Before long, he was awakened by the sound of the door opening and faint footsteps. The faint scent of flowers and herbs tingled at his nose. When he roused himself, he found Juno’s blue eyes regarding him with concern. 

“You look like shite.”

“I feel like shite too.” Harry let out a groan. “My mind is one giant bruise, all swollen and battered.”

“What did the headmaster do, then?” she asked, something dark and dangerous stirring in her blue eyes.

Harry rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes. “Mental Impact,” he murmured. “And then meditation. And more Mental Impact. And more meditation and some attempts to tap into my inner self.”

“I understand.” Juno nodded earnestly, the sharpness in her eyes fading.

“You do?” Harry tilted his head. He had barely grasped half the things Dumbledore had talked about, though that could be the ache in his head. Or rebuilding his Occlumency shields six times… the headmaster was a far more demanding teacher than he would have ever thought.

Before Juno could say anything else, the Seventh Years rushed in. There were fewer than twenty students from all four Houses, including Harry and Juno, but then came six more students with blue satin robes from Beauxbatons and eleven with crimson robes from Durmstrang.

Harry could feel a set of smouldering blue eyes sink into his back right away. Fleur. Something hot even stirred with his magic. Juno sniffed imperiously and sat next to him right away. He suspected he would have been snogged in full view of everyone or something far more outrageous if they hadn’t already planned to keep the betrothal a secret.

Many more glanced his way, speaking in hushed whispers, but he was too dog-tired to meld his magic with the ambience, content to remain slumped over his desk with his school bag for a pillow.

Clunking footsteps grew louder and louder, and the door slammed open. Harry lifted his head and was met with Moody’s magical eye erratically spinning underneath that long, grizzled mane of grey hair. 

“Lots of guests from the Continent this year,” he growled as Harry slumped back on the desk, contemplating whether to excuse himself from this class and get a good nap. “Suppose it’s time to see whether whatever they teach you in Durmstrang and Beauxbatons is up to par.”

Some of the blue-robed students bristled, while the Durmstrang group nodded with approval—as if this were just a matter of course.

“You can put those books away,” Moody grunted as he sat behind the teacher’s chair. “Reading can be done in your spare time. Here… I will teach you a thing or two. But first, let’s see…”

He took out the register, calling out the names. Once he was done, a slender French boy raised his hand.

“Yes, Julen?”

“It’s Julien, sir.” He had a light accent and a smarmy voice that reminded Harry all too much of Draco from his previous life. “Why do we ‘ave younger years here?”

Moody’s voice came out bored. “Because they took last year’s exams and passed into this year. Any more stupid questions?”

“Why is the boy sleeping in class, then?”

“Because the headmaster allows him to.” Moody’s smile was all teeth. “If you can get permission from Albus Dumbledore or your own heads of school, you can sleep in my class. Or skip it entirely.”

He drew his wand with lightning speed and, with a flick, flung a blue streak that struck Julien in the face. The boy stiffened, and yet his wide eyes remained moving.

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” Moody roared, and many jumped out of their seats; even Juno had drawn her wand, ready to fight. Harry, remaining slumped over his desk, stifled a snort.

“I know some of you are here just for a mere grade.” His scarred, grim face darkened further. “Or that you’ve licked the arse of some teacher or the other,” his magical eye paused on the frozen boy, “but I shall suffer none of it. In my class, there will be none of that half-arsed paper-pusher shite. You will learn my way, or you will leave. You must all have covered the Unforgivables, yes?”

Harry listened with half an ear as the class proceeded. This Moody… was not as good a teacher as Barty Crouch Jr, though he wasn’t much worse either. 

At least this year was proving to be… useful.

Halfway through the class, Moody cleared his throat loudly. “Now, I have received Dumbledore’s permission—and that of Madam Zagorska and Maxime for something rather dangerous. A chance to experience and learn how to resist the Imperius Curse. Volunteers only, of course.”

Harry finally rose from the desk, rubbing his eyes. The ache in his head had lessened to the point where his mind no longer felt like someone had chewed it out for half an hour.

“Does anyone wish to volunteer? No?”

Reluctantly, Harry raised his hand.

“Very good, Potter.” Moody’s good eye squinted at him. His wand jabbed faster than the tired Harry could react. “Imperio!”

A most wonderful feeling took hold of him. Every worry and thought floated away, as if nothing ever mattered. A good push would shatter it even with his weary mind, but it felt too good to break so early. Harry was not new to this sort of sensation, but now he had the time to get a good feel of it. A rush of red-hot anger surged into his mind, and with a loud cry of a bird, seared through the emptiness as if it were no more than kindling.

‘Ruddy phoenix form,’ he thought bitterly. Dumbledore had been right—the phoenix had its own… consciousness, and his methods had finally stirred it awake.

“Get up and do a handstand for us, Potter,” Moody said, and a voice echoed it in his mind.

“I’d rather nap,” Harry yawned and slumped back on the desk. At least now he was certain Dumbledore’s training would bear fruit.

“Look at Potter!” Mad-Eye’s gruff voice echoed above him. “He didn’t even let it take hold. Hah. That’s why he gets to sleep. Now, you there, step forth. Yes, you, the boy beside Julen. The French boy with the smarmy smile—”

Another heavy blow to the ICW, two dozen Hit Wizards dead in Wizarding Czechia

By Betty Braithwaite, September 20, 1994

In a dangerous skirmish on the outskirts of Klatovy, a hit-wizard outpost was slaughtered by werewolves on the full moon, leaving none alive. Dozens of Muggle homes were attacked that night, with nineteen dead and hundreds bitten.

This is the second serious attack by werewolves, and, according to anonymous ICW sources, many of the werewolf packs have fallen into alliance with the internationally wanted criminal calling himself Lord Emberwick.

The increasing number of attacks has raised alarm in the international wizarding community, and the Ministries of Transylvania, Poland, and the Baltic League have recalled their Mugwumps from the ICW and withdrawn from the organisation, citing corruption and inefficiency, forming an alliance of their own. Speculation suggests Hungary is favourable to the arrangement, and its ministry is considering its options, including joining the newly formed local alliance…

ICW deliberates sanctions over the Dalmatian clans and the Greek Ministry over their illegal trade with Emberwick’s followers and the werewolf packs. According to the joint French-German investigation, they use underground channels to ply banned items, cursed artefacts, and regulated products freely…

24th of September 1994, Saturday (17 days later)

Neville

He clutched a wrinkled page from the Prophet, eyes glaring at Bellatrix Lestrange’s unhinged face for the thousandth time.

‘The House of Lestrange—reduced to a single Black?!’

After Rodolphus Lestrange’s mind has been deemed irrevocably damaged and the Wizengamot votes to have him thrown through the Veil of Death, the line of Lestrange is confirmed to be extinct save for the Black Heiress. An official inquiry of the Lestrange bloodline tree confirmed the demise of Bellatrix Lestrange at the Great Brechfa Inferno. 

Motions from the distant French branch of the Lestranges to inherit the Lestrange seat and wealth in the Wizengamot had been swiftly dismissed by Lady Black. In an unprecedented move, Lady Juno relinquished the Lestrange seat on the Wizengamot in favour of the newly risen Lord Lucius Malfoy. 

And while rumours about dirty dealings behind the curtains rise, our sources in the ministry confirmed that procedures were followed legitimately…

Jon’s voice came from the bed. “Still staring at that old paper, Nev?”

Neville crumpled the page into a ball and tossed it away.

“Just peachy,” he muttered under his nose. Truth be told, he didn’t know how to feel. 

Three of four who had killed his parents… were now dead. Rodolphus cast into the Veil, Bellatrix burned into ash, and Rabastan, beheaded by the Dragon of Diagon more than a year ago. Each death confirmed—her grandmother had even resorted to an old Blood-grudge Divination ritual just to make sure it had not been some sort of trick to ‘disappear’ after faking their deaths. Now only Barty Crouch Jr remained, serving yet another Dark Lord…

He was not angry at Juno, not anymore. He couldn’t muster any joy or anger at those who had killed his parents, either; he just felt… hollow. Aimless.

“Don’t think too hard of it,” Seamus said with a snort. “You won’t believe what I saw today!”

Dean scratched his nose. “Did you manage to sneak into the girls’ bathroom?”

“No, something far better. I caught a glimpse of Professor Bones today. Hottest professor in school, I tell you. Her robes were all damp with sweat, glued to her, and I swear to Merlin, her knockers were even bigger than I thought—”

The door swung open, and a dead-tired Ron Weasley marched inside, his worn-out robes a crumpled mess. Taller than each boy in the dorm, he glared down at them and, when they all averted their eyes, he gave a disdainful snort.

“Watch it,” he said, face dark as he glared a hole into Seamus. “If I catch you speaking ill of Professor Bones again, I’ll report you myself.”

“You’ll tattle again, eh, Weasley?” Seamus shot back. 

Weasley grinned widely, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll smash your nose first.”

That finally silenced the Irish boy. Ron Weasley was mad as he was daring, meant every threat he spoke, and he was not afraid to get into detention and deeper trouble to keep it up. He had brawled with the older years for trying to joke around with Loony and the youngest Greengrass. Be it magic or Muggle brawling, he was ready to fight at the drop of a hat. There was a reason why everyone called him the Mad Dog.

Snorting one last time, Weasley left with an old, frayed towel thrown over his shoulder.

“Bloody wanker,” Seamus swore under his breath. “Why do all the Weasleys have to be madder than the last?”

They had fought once, in the dorm room. Ron Weasley had been jinxed pretty badly, but refused to tattle once he got to the hospital wing. Then he found them one by one the next week and broke their noses and knocked out half of their teeth. Professor McGonagall had them all shovel dragon dung for a month. They hadn’t dared to fight a second time.

Neville shuddered at the memory. 

“Ginny’s pretty normal,” Dean was saying. “She’s pretty cute, too.”

“Good luck asking her out with brothers like these,” Jon muttered. “She’s vicious enough on her own, too. Heard Fawley asked her out and got hexed, spewing slugs a whole day for it.”

“Suits the Fop right!”

“Anyway…” Dean cleared his throat loudly. “Do you think Greengrass’ll be willing to give me a shot?”

Jon let out a bitter snort. “Your blood isn’t pure enough for the blonde princess. Unless you fancy the younger one?”

“She’s… small and hangs out with Loony. The uglier sister by far. Maybe I can ask Bones out and be a happy man, if her aunt is anything to go by.”

The dark-skinned boy let a perverted laugh.

Neville shook his head. His friends were incorrigible. The last year had been bad, but this year all they had in their mind was witches… and more witches. The Deputy Headmistress was ‘a hot piece of arse’ as Seamus would call her in private, but she was an older and dangerous witch, and provoking her… never ended well, as the Weasley Twins would attest. Thankfully, those two red-haired menaces had finally settled down in the last year.

Susan Bones also carried herself with the confidence of an experienced duellist, and Neville wasn’t sure he could snatch a win from her, let alone ask her for a date. Worse, just like most of the pretty witches their year—or any year, really—the red-haired Hufflepuff witch only had eyes for one boy…

After digging out his training robe from his trunk, Neville rose.

“Training again?” Jon asked with a quirk of his brow. “What for? Your grades are good enough, and it’s not like we can compete with Black and Potter.” He snorted. “Or Weasley, for that matter. Bloody tryhards, the lot of them.”

Rolling his eyes, Neville pulled on the robe and left the dorm. 

He found an abandoned classroom and drilled himself through every combat spell he knew. Spell-chains rushed from his wand in a practised stream, raining down on the wall as if it were Barty Crouch Jr, until he felt his limbs grow sluggish, the telltale sign of impending magical exhaustion.

“Never forget Frank and Alice,” his grandmother’s words echoed in his head. “Blood must be answered by blood. It’s the son’s duty to avenge his mother, to restore his father’s honour and glory.”

Avenge? A low, bitter chuckle tore from his throat. It had sounded great a long time ago. Training that once filled him with purpose only left him feeling empty and numb. More numb than empty. Honour and glory were far and felt meaningless. The anger that had once churned in his stomach had long gone cold, and everything seemed pointless.

He slid down on his knees, staring at the wall he had vented on as if it held all the answers. It didn’t.

The training was good enough; he could beat most of the fifth years in a duel, and his grades were better than most… but it was not enough. It was never enough. No matter how hard he had trained, vengeance was no closer than it had been a week ago, and no matter how good his grades were, his grandmother was not happy. 

But then again, his grandmother was never happy. She almost never smiled, either.

Attacking Juno in the manner he did had been dishonourable at best and had given him a brief taste of satisfaction, but she was not the one who had murdered his mother and father. The next day, he only felt empty and horrified, and he had dreamt of blood on the floor for weeks. And the retaliation had come swift and fierce, hurting the Longbottom estate and their businesses—a pain felt even three years later.

His grandmother had reassured him in private, of course. She had graced him with a rare smile, filled with pride, saying that he had done the right thing, that the sin of the parents had fallen on their sole child. That had not stopped her from making peace with the Blacks later that summer, though. The right thing and the Longbottom honour did not matter as much as the Longbottom finances, it seemed.

Or perhaps she had lied all along. What justice was there in hitting an unsuspecting enemy who herself hadn’t ever wronged him?

Neville shuddered at the countless hours spent cleaning toilets with a toothbrush, and just the memory of it made his knees ache. Longbottom the Toothbrush—it had taken a full year for that nickname to go away, though some still remembered. His grandmother’s rare case of approval was not worth being the butt of the joke for years, either, nor was having his extracurricular magic training put on hold for the good part of two years.

“Mr Longbottom,” a hoary voice rasped, and he turned to see McGonagall’s shrivelled form leaning onto the doorway, her wrinkled face filled with concern. “Are you well?”

“…I don’t know.”

Her eyes flicked to the wall, finding it riddled with cracks and marks. “Three points from Gryffindor for damaging the school property,” she croaked out, lips thinning. With a flick of her hand, the wall rippled, and the rips knit back together as marks turned to dust. “And detention next evening with me.”

Words said, his head of house let out a long sigh and hobbled away, muttering something about a cane and unruly children.

Neville found himself standing up, dragging himself to the doorway. He knew this detention wouldn’t be writing lines, but having a hot cup of tea and a somewhat stern talk. Guilt rose in him as he watched Professor McGonagall’s back slowly grow smaller in the distance. The old Transfiguration mistress looked so fragile that a gust of wind was likely to knock her down. His feet led him around the winding hallways and staircases, aimlessly trudging as he just walked, his head too blank to think.

Eventually, he moved through the courtyard and past the greenhouses. Neville lingered there for a long moment, and after throwing them one last look filled with longing, he moved on. His grandmother had talked with Professor Sprout, barring him from any additional Herbology work unless his grades in Defence and Transfiguration topped the year. He had argued himself hoarse over the summers, trying to loosen up the requirement, but that had been a losing battle.

Augusta Longbottom was not a woman who could be moved by words or threats. His feet finally grew tired, and he settled on the shore on a big stone overlooking the great lake. 

The chilly Scottish air tickled at his throat, and even the cold wind felt pleasantly numbing for once. He watched to the west as the sun slowly tickled down, hiding beyond the Quidditch stadium.

“Longbottom,” a silken voice had him spin around so swiftly he almost fell off his stone. “Are you trying to fall sick here?”

He lifted his head to meet with a pair of icy blue eyes on a pale face he had spent the good part of three years hating. The same eyes that made you feel naked, as if all of your secrets were seen through with a single glance.

But it had been months since he could muster any hatred for Juno Bellatrix Black.  

‘What is it to you?’ he wanted to bite out. Then his eyes flickered to the dark treeline of the forbidden forest behind. Someone was out of bounds. A vengeful idea rose in his mind, but a chill crawled down his back as Juno’s brow quirked in challenge—she had seen through him.

“Was just thinking,” he muttered instead with a stiff shrug, his voice coming out hoarse from the chill. Manners make the wizard, as his uncle loved to say in his rare cases of sober wisdom.

“You should go to the hospital wing, then,” she said tonelessly. 

Juno Bellatrix Black was as beautiful as ever, easily the prettiest witch in the year—and tied together with the French veela for the entire school—according to the unofficial ranking Seamus had compiled with the help of a few ‘mates’ from Hufflepuff. But hers was a poisonous beauty, impossibly sharp like a cursed blade and twice as deadly. Her icy eyes were like daggers, too, stabbing at any foolish and daring enough to meet them, and the chill in them only melted for a single boy.  

And yet… there was no malice in her gaze as she regarded him with indifference, as if he had been nothing more than a stranger. There had never been… as if he had never been worth even a little bit of hatred or disdain. It made him feel like an even bigger fool.

“I… I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “For that time… I should have known better.”

The edge of her mouth twitched ever so slightly. “I’ve long forgiven you, even with that flimsy first apology.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Truthfully, we never needed to be enemies. We had plenty in common. My hatred for my parents outdid yours, as did my desire to see them dead.”

His hair stood on end as her pale, dainty hand patted his shoulder lightly. “But it’s no good to be consumed by hatred. You should make your own way, regardless of what your grandmother says.”

Giving him one strangely affectionate pat on the cheek, she turned around and left, her slender form gliding away and leaving a frozen Neville behind.

She had read him like an open book… and he hadn’t felt a thing in his mind. His shivering fingers balled into a fist. A wave of resentment towards his grandmother surged, but he squashed it quickly. 

Gran loved him in her own way.

As soon as Juno was out of sight, he ran to the hospital wing like the hounds of hell were chasing him. He would never admit it—not out loud—but the Black witch scared him far more than his own grandmother ever did.

There, we’re gonna get into the swing of things in the next chapter. I entertained writing a Neville PoV once, and this is it. I know JKR’s magic system is a bit more complicated than it appears at first glance, and I added my own twist, and I almost regret that. Anyway, Dumbledore’s explanation should shed some light, at least in this ‘canon’, and it follows the line of all the previous lore I dropped.

Some of you might have noticed Juno giving away a Wizengamot seat. No, I didn’t make a mistake there either; it’ll be explained later.