Ascension 37

“He definitely knows something,” Ron repeated for the dozenth time as they sat in the stands, watching a practice session between Hufflepuff

“He definitely knows something,” Ron repeated for the dozenth time as they sat in the stands, watching a practice session between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw teams. Quietly eating his sandwich, Neville nodded along as the ginger continued to rant, scribbling hurriedly on a parchme—wait, since when did Ron do his homework while a Quidditch match was going on?

“Ron,” he called out, leaning down to get a better look, before his eyebrows rose in surprise, “Accio? That’s fourth-year syllabus. The hell are you doing with that?”

“Fred and George are making some new item to prank the Slytherins, and they need to get out of the castle,” he shrugged, not stopping his writing even for a moment. Honestly, it was a little disconcerting to see Ronald this focused while writing homework, that too someone else’s. “They needed an alibi, and the best way to do that is by submitting homework. I asked them for ten percent of the profits made in return for helping them throughout the week, and an extra ten percent if I even write their detention assignments.”

“Merlin Ron, I didn’t know you had it in you to write twenty assignments in four days,” he laughed, before stopping as he saw Ron’s shocked face, “Wait,” he sat down, barely stopping his laughter as he grinned, “You didn’t know there were twenty assignments to be done?”

“I bloody well didn’t!” he cursed, glaring down at the pages before looking in the direction of Hogsmeade, “Now I know why the hell they were grinning…well more than normal!” he paused for a moment, before looking at him with accusing eyes, “and how did you know that there are twenty assignments to be done? Were you in on this with them?”

“I wish I was,” he shook his head with a chuckle, before patting Ron on his head, “The whole castle probably knows that they have got detention in every core subject for flunking the classes. You probably were under a rock when it happened.”

“I must have been in the hospital wing then,” Ron muttered, eyes lowering as he returned to the assignment, and Neville’s laughter evaporated instantly. Right…for a moment, he had forgotten that Hermione was in the hospital wing, petrified and dying. Sobered and serious now, Neville turned to the match as he watched Cedric dive after the Snitch, his Nimbus 2000 giving him an edge against the Ravenclaw’s Cleansweep. “Why do you think Hagrid knows something?”

“He deflected us, by pointing to Dumbledore and the teachers, and our age,” Ron answered, not looking up the parchment as he continued to scribble, copying from another, much neater set, “He told us just enough that we would leave him for the moment…and you heard that sound in the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid knows that thing, and it scared him more than Norberta ever did. Plus, there were graves in his backyard.”

“Graves?”

“Yeah, I saw them as we were coming out,” Ron looked up, his voice suspicious as he looked in the direction of Hagrid’s hut, “Mum and Dad bury dead animals the same way in our yard after only the bones are left. Based on the amount of churned up dirt and the mud in his nails, and that amount of incense being burned, I’d say Hagrid was holding a damn feast. Except he doesn’t have any friends besides us and Dumbledore—and I dunno about you, but he didn’t invite me to a party.”

“You are saying Hagrid skinned the meat of a lot of animals for something besides that stew he was cooking?” Neville asked, following Ron’s gaze to the hut visible in the distance, where even now, he could see the giant figure of Hagrid moving through the snow, lugging trees from the edge of the forest.

“Yeah…like dozens.”

“Do you really think he has a monster as his pet?” he frowned, turning back to his friend, watching Ron sigh as the ginger met his eyes, before nodding slowly.

“He is hiding something in that forest, something that scares even him,” Ron repeated, ”Do you want to know what it takes to scare a wizard like that? Norberta’s acid was eating through his fingers, and he was laughing it off. Her fire singed his flesh, and he cuddled that beast to sleep. But that one sound made him piss himself…and as much as I hate it, I can see Hagrid keeping a beast and thinking it misunderstood even if it bloodied its fangs on wizard blood.”

“But petrification? How many creatures can do that?” he raised a finger. “I know of only Sphinxes who petrify like this, and it's pretty hard to hide that big of a creature. Even in the forest. Curses and Gorgons have already been ruled out, and frankly, I doubt Snape or Dumbledore can’t counter a curse in the months that have passed.”

“Right, I forgot the git was a bloody Death Eater,” Ron muttered, shuddering for a moment before falling silent.

“Even we say that Hagrid lied to us and he is, in fact, connected to the petrifications…we can’t do anything about it,” he leaned back, looking at the sky as a bludger came close to them, before shooting off towards the Hufflepuff goalkeeper, “I hope I can find something in the Longbottom Library once I get home.”

“I am thinking of writing to Charlie, he ought to know something,” Ron nodded in agreement, and silence returned between them as Neville watched the game, while he continued slogging away at the assignments.

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“Today, we shall start with the Damicus Potion, or as it is known to unknowing plebians, the Sensory Potion,” Snape began with the customary swirl of his cloak, silently rapping his wand against the blackboard to reveal the condensed down version of the recipe on it, as well as the stages and the ingredients, “Mr. Nott,” he snapped, turning towards the boy seated a couple of places ahead of him, “What are the most common uses of the Damicus Potion?”

“In the application of research on wizards’ responses to stimuli, and practical applications in military as well as creature handling,” Nott answered promptly, and Harry silently shook his head as he watched the boy almost knock over the cauldron Zabini had been setting up in his haste.

“Correct,” their Professor nodded, a pleased smirk on his face as his eyes flicked to the Gryffindors, “How interesting, there is a distinct lack of raised hands from the Gryffindors nowadays. I wonder what has changed?”

“Git.” Harry heard the distinct voice of Ron Weasley from his right, and while he didn’t like the boy one bit, he could see the naked delight Snape took in his vicious words, the smirk on his face widening just a fraction as he turned towards the ginger.

“What was that,” his sibilant whisper wove through the silence dangerously, his coal black eyes staring down the rebellious Gryffindors with a frightening calm as he took a couple of steps forward, crossing his arms behind his back, “Mr. Weasley?”

“I called you a git,” the ginger glared back, and perhaps for the first time ever since he had had the misfortune of sharing a castle with the uncouth, loud boy, Harry heard him talk silently. Oh, there was anger in his voice, lots of it, but it was much quieter than what they all expected of him, Perhaps, that was the reason that even Malfoy looked surprised, his gleeful expression vanishing as his eyes widened, and even Snape looked flummoxed for a second, “Professor.”

“A hundred points from Gryffindor,” he hissed out, and yet, probably for the first time ever, every Gryffindor glared back instead of cursing out Weasley. Say what one would about Gryffindors, but Harry admired this solidarity of theirs, that seemed to run deeper than the fake simperings in his own House. Ron made to stand up, the anger finally getting the better of him, and Harry watched Neville clasp a firm hand on his shoulder before pulling him down, giving him a minute shake of his head before staring back at Snape. Appearing satisfied with the reaction, Snape turned towards the girls, “Miss Brown, I see your hand has regrown. Welcome back to the class at last, with better learnings on how to safely brew second-year potions.”

“Merlin's balls he is in a bad mood today,” Tracey whispered quietly, and he nodded in agreement.

“What are the reasons that the use of harpy vocal cords was abolished in 1911 in favor of a siren’s?”

“Th-The Siren’s vocal cords don’t carry over the acidic properties of the Harpy,” the girl surprisingly answered, standing up and stumbling over her words a little, fearful eyes looking at Snape, “it was also done to give better aquatic awareness.”

“Adequate,” he sneered, “Perhaps being under the effects of potions has done you some good, Miss Brown. However, you didn’t know that the correction was made in 1906, not 1911. That’s another ten points from Gryffindor. Now,” he continued loudly, turning away from the Gryffindors and returning to his desk, “the ingredients are in the reserve cupboard near my office doors, and you have eighty-five minutes to brew the potion, preparation included.”

“Get the ingredients, I will set up the cauldron and the moonstalk,” Daphne told him, taking out her bronze cauldron and starting the flame with a push against the runes, “Let them rush ahead first, I don’t want a crushed or chipped part.”

“Sure,” he nodded, watching Malfoy and Ron reach the cupboard at the same time, before the blond said something to the ginger, “That doesn’t look good.”

“Which of Malfoy’s deeds usually do?” she asked in turn, pausing to watch an argument erupt before Weasley socked Malfoy right on his nose. The crunch of it echoed in the momentary silence that had ensued at their shouts, and Harry watched blood fall down the Malfoy Heir’s face in spurts Wails of agony instantly left his lips in between muffled, warbled threats, and Weasley turned around, walking past them to the door without a look at Snape’s murderous expression.

“Episkey,” Snape’s voice echoed in the pin-drop quiet, half of the class looking at the sight of the Slytherin Head healing Draco, while half was staring at the door, wondering what had happened to Weasley.

“Return to your tasks, or is there someone else who wants to create indiscipline in my class?” the sallow-skinned wizard asked as he straightened up, and Drao quietly walked back to his seat, seething and flushed red with anger and pain. Sharing a glance with Daphne, Harry walked towards the back of the glance, the students now much more subdued with whatever the fuck had happened in the last five minutes.

“Afternoon,” he greeted Longbottom with a nod as they both met at the cupboard, letting Brown and Thomas take the ingredients before them. A frown of irritation came over his face for a moment as he looked up at Neville, noting the boy had grown even taller than him in the last month. Wiping that off his face, he tilted his head in the direction of the door, “What happened to him?”

“Lack of sleep, Pepper-up potions, and Snape’s taunts about a girl that is dying in the infirmary,” Neville deadpanned, yet he could not completely mask his anger, and neither did he lower his voice, “Git didn't have a single friend throughout his life, so can’t really blame him for not understanding. How are you guys?”

“Fine enough,” he shrugged, taking a step forward and parting the collection of sinew, wrinkling his nose at the pungent, fishy scent of the Siren's vocal cords. Counting seven strands, Harry searched for squid mucus, only to get a rap on his shoulder from Neville.

“Here,” the taller wizard said, handing him a small vial of clear, gelatinous liquid, “Squid mucus.”

“Thanks,” he nodded, taking the vial before picking up a dish of crushed hippogryph eye.

“Hey…Harry,” Neville called out as he started to walk backward to his seat, and as he turned his head to meet his eyes, he continued, “Fred and George are planning some prank on Slytherins sometime in the next two days…try not to get caught up in it.”

“Why not tell McGonagall or Snape?” he whispered back, looking over to see the mentioned teacher bearing down on Thomas and Finnegan, actually casting wards around the two’s cauldron.

“Your house deserves a bit of punishment for the comments and laughs they are having at the petrified student’s expense,” he answered, his eyes flicking to Draco, before returning to him, “but you and your friends haven’t done anything like that, so a little warning to keep you out of whatever the twins have planned.”

“Fair enough,” he nodded after a moment and turned around, walking back to his seat, the water already beginning to simmer in the cauldron while Daphne chopped the Moonstalks finely. “Here,” he said, handing over the squid mucus and the Hippogryph eyes to her, while he set about cleaning the fibrous vocal cords.

“Are you going to go back to Castle Black in the holidays?”

“We are, barring Arcturus telling us otherwise,” he nodded, wiping away the residue on the muscles with a clean cloth, disposing of it in the provided dustbin, and watching it get incinerated into ashes with fascination.

Magic—he repeated with a shake of his head, was wicked.

“We are hosting a minor gathering at our manor on Yule,” Daphne continued, muttering a quick chant as she made a triangle over the now bubbling water, before adding the moonstalk to it. “Stir it slowly, like we did during the Blood Replenishing Potion. Counterclockwise thrice, before reversing it seven times.” Following her instructions, Harry used the stirrer, a thin, cylindrical rod as long as his forearm, to swirl the contents gently, the magically inert bronze inscribed with runes to give it many properties that made its use in even the most reactive of potions possible.

Arcturus had spared no expense in getting them their second-year supplies, something he was thankful for eternally, as he watched Finnegan use a cedar one, visible cracks running up and down his tool.

“What about that gathering?” he asked, counting to three before changing directions right as his stirrer reached the tiny mark etched onto the edge of the cauldron.

“Well, you are invited, as wards of Lord Black and the Heir and Heiress of the Potter House,” she drolled, giving him a dry look as if saying ‘What the hell did you expect?’, “I hope you have brushed up on dancing lessons, there is supposed to a one before dinner and after the celebrations.”

“Dancing? Casseiopeia tried to teach me some…but she decided it wasn’t that important afterwards,” he shook his head, thinking back to his Grandaunt’s lessons, before looking at Daphne. “Besides, do you know who I am? Which Heiress will dance with me anyways.”

“I will,” she countered promptly, and Harry was stumped at her words. Looking away as he felt some embarrassment inflame his cheeks at her admission, he missed the way Daphne too reacted at her unbidden answer. Looking back at the cauldron as he reached the number seven, Harry carefully removed the stirrer and gently sprinkled the crushed hippogryph eyes over the bubbling solution, watching crimson color bloom over the colorless liquid wherever the powder touched.

“I will practice.” he said after a few moments, his lips quirking a little before his expression returned to normal, and a comfortable silence dropped between the two of them.

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“Alright, considering this is your second to last day before Professor Snape and I have decided we can have a little practical showing from you guys, instead of us teachers having to do all the work,” Lockhart clapped his hands sharply, silencing the crowd of second and third years as he strode to the center of the platform. His trademark smile on his face and hair set in a never-changing flourish, 

“Quite so,” the Potions Professor stared out at them, and Persephone watched his eyes return to the Gryffindor section, probably staring at Weasley and Longbottom. Honestly, she had been surprised when the Slytherin Head had let both of them off without a detention. Neither had the matter been raised with McGonagall, otherwise everyone would have heard of it by now. But given how he had been regularly looking at the Gryffindors and smirking to himself, Persephone was willing to bet her newest hair clips that the wizard was going to humiliate them today.

“We have decided to have the best performers come up on stage from the second year first, a demonstration of their skills in the format followed in the Wand of Ares championship,” Lockhart continued, waving his wand and erecting a translucent barrier around the stage, before it slowly shimmered out of view. “We shall not interfere until the participants break the rule of engagement in any way or form, or any or both cannot continue to duel for any reason. Now, any volunteers?” he asked, twisting slowly to seemingly look everyone in the eyes with a raised eyebrow, before a sigh escaped him as he shook his head, “and here I thought I had instilled some confidence in you. No matter, we shall have our duelists the old fashioned way then. Persephone Potter! Come up on stage would you?”

“Ah shit,” she cursed, instantly feeling hundreds of eyes focus on her as a spotlight of all things shone down on her from somewhere in the rafters above, and felt Harry squeeze her hand as the students before her parted. Whispers and shouts of laughter rang throughout the Great Hall as she looked at Lockhart, before Harry repeated his action, giving her the confidence to walk forwards.

Taking a deep breath, the crimson haired witch made her way to the stage, feeling the jeers and taunts of the children chip away at her patience. Many laughed, a few cursed. Quite a few voices called out for Neville to be her opponent, wanting to see justice served. Even if someone remained silent, it was easy to see the pleasure, the anger in their eyes, clapping mockingly as Lockhart led an applause, but Persephone knew that almost everyone wished to see her get humiliated and hurt on that stage.

To get her reckoning as the daughter of James and Lily Potter.

Eyes flinty as she ascended the stairs, she smiled a little as Lockhart nodded at her, and took her place at one end of the platform, opposite to Snape.

“All right now, as for the second opponent…why not someone from third year eh?” the Defence Professor smiled, a momentary hush falling over the raucous crowd as everyone stared at the man. Enigmaticly smiling as he let the tension simmer for a moment, Lockhart twisted suddenly, eyes razor sharp as he searched through the crowd right behind him, before beaming brightly. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Grey.”

Anger surged through her mind instantly as she realised just who Lockhart had chosen to be her opponent. The third year was none other than the Gryffindor boy who had tried to curse her the previous year with a Ravenclaw senior, to stop her from going to the Halloween feast. They had fortunately never crossed paths after that much, except for glares and curses aimed at her in corridors…but today she watched the smug prick cockily high five his friends and swagger towards the stage.

And Persephone remembered Vernon, snapping his belt and shouting at them for burning Dudley’s birthday food.

She remembered Petunia, who despite being her blood aunt, had treated them as house elves.

And most of all, she remembered Dudley, who found it fun to sick Ripper on them even when marge slept off the wine, just because they had snuck out in the night to have some of that thanksgiving leftovers.

Quietly, Persephone removed her wand from her holster and felt a buzz fall over her ears, blanketing the encouraging shouts echoing all around her, everyone cheering for Grey and betting on her defeat. As Grey climbed up the steps, she turned her eyes, meeting the gaze of her friends, worry overshadowed by confidence and reassurance in their expressions. Daphne gave her a small nod, a silent moment of communication passing between them.

The Greengrass heiress understood her growing desire, and she approved of it.

A moment later, she looked at Harry, finding him looking at her silently, without a smile. Yet, she didn’t need him to express his thoughts, not when she knew him better than she knew herself. Tilting her head a little, she gave him the same smile she had given him in the dark, cramped space of their cupboard.

It will be fine.

Only this time, they both knew it to be more than platitudes offered in weakness.

This time, it was a promise.

Thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds, he watched a third year student launch spells at a second year. For thirty seconds, Mr. Grey hurled every kind of spell he knew at the girl standing across from him. Usually, within half of that time, most second years gave up on shielding and started to dig spellfire, most if not all panicking in their haste to defend and attack, before falling prey to the stronger and older spellcaster.

Usually, they were not facing Persephone Potter.

A prodigy in every wanded skill, quick with her wand, and already having killed a troll. 

Sure, the last had taken her brother too, but it did not make her any less skilled or powerful.

Usually, Snape wasn’t used to watching second years cast a Protego for thirty seconds, and then hit back with dozens of precise, quick cutting curses. Her arm flashed relentlessly as the silence as the deafening cheers in the Great Hall turned into a graveyard of silence, hundreds of eyes watching her magic break through the flimsy attempts at defence put up by a wizard her senior.

His hasty Clypeus shattered like it wasn’t even there.

A poorly cast Aegis Minima broke under a Diffindo the next moment.

And within an eyeblink, she drew blood. 

A pained cry came from the boy as his right thigh was hit, and Snape watched a thin line of crimson bloom across the robes. Gasps came from the students around him, and yet, the duel did not stop. He watched Persephone, her face a blank mask as she whipped her wand through the air like moving a ribbon around, sending cutting curses towards the Gryffindor each time the tip aimed towards him. A dozen spells struck Devin within moments, tatters of his robes flying off along with a couple of splatters of blood as one nicked him on his elbow, and another struck his thigh in the same spot.

Nothing was fatal, and well within the healing skills of both him and Lockhart, so the duel continued. 

Five seconds later, Grey fell to the floor, unconscious and in shock as blood started to flow down on the platform, and Persephone calmly walked towards the steps, not even giving him another glance.

Usually, he would have derided the Gryffindors in their shame and silence, and awarded his student points galore.

But as the last minute had shown him, these were not usual circumstances at all. 

It had been like watching a ghost, the second year girl looking every bit like her mother as she had cast her magic, silent yet powerful. Striding forwards to kneel by the Gryffndor and beginning to heal him, Snape turned his head to look at the back of the red-haired girl, feeling the evidence of her revenge stick to his wand as he moved it over the wounds, repairing flesh as easily as she had carved it.

“Miss Potter wins by a remarkable showing of talent and power, as Mr. Grey is unable to continue,” Lockhart shouted, and Snape smirked a little as he detected the surprise in the normally suave, loudmouthed wizard, “and while it was certainly a crushing defeat for Devin here, you should expect much fierce competition in the actual arena. Now, before I call on the next duelists, a round of applause for our young winner here!”

A smattering of hesitant claps went around the Hall, more than half of the students still in shock at what they had witnessed, while the rest had started to whisper amongst themselves once again. Repairing the torn cloth as the last of the wounds went away—though he let the scars remain, wanting the boy to remember the look of his marred flesh, a reminder of his grandstanding last year. 

Standing up slowly, Snape conjured a stretcher and levitated Grey’s unconscious’ form over to it, before letting it float to the side while Lockhart highlighted the important aspects of the little humiliation ritual Persephone had displayed for them all.

“-s why, you should not panic, like Mr. Grey did once he found his power and speed were both far below Miss Potter’s,” Lockhart continued, conjuring the projections of the duel as it had happened and playing it out in slow motion to let the students see his points more clearly. “Maybe if he had kept his wits about him, Mr. Grey could have laid a trap for her, or possibly used ingenuity instead of force to defeat her. At the end of the day however, you have mere moments to think, many times even less in a professional duel. I hope today we are able to display that more…properly. Now, as for our next participants…I believe Miss Belby and Mr. Abernathy, you two shall do wonderfully. Come up on the stage!”

The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw third years ambled onstage, and Snape rolled his eyes as he saw them glance uneasily at the little bloodstains that had escaped his notice. Vanishing them with a flick of his wand, he barely withheld a snort as he saw Belby visibly relax—the Hufflepuff was entirely too queasy for his own good. Standing at the specified distance, both saluted each other with smiles on their faces as if they were being wed, and Severus stifled another roll of his eyes as he saw them bow with that same stupidity.

What followed was amongst the most pitiful and childish duels he had witnessed in his life. Nothing beyond Rictumsempras and Aegis Minima was being used, their dodges looked more like the drowning of a hapless calf, struggling to stay balanced even on ground. For a moment, it looked like they would pick up on the skills displayed as Belby shot a stunner at Abernathy, only for the Ravenclaw to cast a protego and follow it up by using a blaster.

Belby managed to dodge it well enough, but his opponent showed some cleverness, transfiguring the shrapnel into birds that began to circle and peck at the panicking Hufflepuff. Spells were shot in the brief window of opportunity as Belby used a blaze of fire to incinerate the birds, and one of them made it through.

A jelly legs struck Belby, and a moment later, Abernathy dropped to his knees in exhaustion, both of their bodies hitting the floor at the same time.

“Disappointing,” he muttered, not caring to lower his voice as he stared down at them both, “With this level of showing, I would be surprised if Hogwarts clears the preliminaries.”

“Oh come now Professor Snape, it was a fine display,” Lockhart laughed him off, helping Abernathy stand up as he dispelled the jinx. “Albeit, I think you do with more casting than thinking, Mr. Abernathy. And the opposite for you, Miss Belby. Regardless, a round of cheers for our young duelists here!”

Neville had had a pretty eventful life.

Dead parents.

Worldwide fame before he even stopped pissing the bed.

A Grandmother who sometimes behaved more like a warden than his family.

Press and Auror coverage wherever he went.

As of last year, the most dreaded wizard of the last thousand years coming back to kill him again was also added to the list.

This year, the blasted Chamber of Secrets had somehow sprouted out of the pits of hell to make his second year a mess.

Hermione was hospitalised, each day taking away just a little of her magic and vitality.

The latest thing to happen in these lines of events was his and Ron’s open defiance against Snape. While Ron had later admitted that had it not been for the Pepper Up potion’s effects and his own lack of sleep, he might have not spoken up like that. He, on the other hand, was done with the git’s horrible excuse for civic sense. Being the Boy-Who-Lived had its perks, one of which was, no matter his academic records or his grades from Snape, he was never going to have to worry about his future being affected because of it.

Of course, that meant Snape found every and any possible avenue to humiliate him or piss him off, because while Neville may be the Boy-Who-Lived, Snape was still his professor. 

And Neville wasn’t a lowly creature like the insane Slytherin to forget basic manners and the relationship of respect that existed between a student and a faculty.

Therefore, as Snape smirked victoriously at him and Ron before interrupting Lockhart to call his friend on the stage, Neville didn’t give in to the desire of cursing aloud or shooting a dozen curses at the git. Instead he just stared right back as he moved a little closer to the platform along with Ron, and watched his friend get up to  stand at the center.

“Well, there is one Professor Snape,” Lockhart waved towards Ron. “Who is your other choice for this duel?”

“Mr. Malfoy,” the greasy bat looked over his shoulder at his blond joker of a ward. “Come up on the stage.”

“Fucking prat,” he muttered underneath his breath as he watched Draco swagger up to the stage to a polite applause from the Slytherins and a few others. The Malfoy Heir looked at him first, giving him a savage grin as he took his wand out from its holster, before turning towards Ron, the smirk vanishing to show the anger as he whispered something, too low for him to hear.

Ron instantly rose to the bait, that trademark, familiar shade of red blooming over his ears and neck as he too muttered back something, before Lockhart commanded the duelists to salute.

Predictably, neither did.

No one was surprised though. The fact that Ron had broken Malfoy’s nose—-just like Weasley Senior had done to his father had made rounds through Hogwarts within minutes after yesterday’s class. Malfoy, understandably, hadn’t been pleased with it, and he had heard how the boy was shifting it as him being far above muggle violence, and Ron couldn’t hope to defeat him in straight, proper wizarding combat.

And therein lied his worry, as well as his anger at Snape.

The git had known what his godson wanted, and provided it to him on a silver platter. 

While Ron wasn’t weak by any means, Neville knew that he wasn’t as good as Draco. Not even remotely. Ron had received his wand as a hand-me-down from one of his brothers, while Draco had gone to Ollivander’s when he had been eight. A loud, entitled ferret he may be, but Neville knew the Malfoy Heir was better than Ron when it came to magic. Now if Ron didn’t rise up to the bait and kept a calm head, he may very well win against Draco, because sloppy he might be, but Ron had a great mind when it came to chess.

Now all he could pray for was that it translated to actual strategizing too.

“Duelists, Bow.” Lockhart called out again, looking entirely unconcerned with the murderous looks being exchanged right below his nose, while somehow, the Whole Great hall had fallen silent to watch the fight about to begin. As Ron and Draco both kept on staring at each other, ignoring Lockhart’s call, the Defence Professor sighed, before he smirked—and was the man looking at him or was it his imagination, “On the count of three then, One.”

Ron and Draco both took distance, their hands tight on their wands as they kept on looking at each other. Draco looked back towards Snape for a moment, and the man nodded expressionlessly, sending alarm bells ringing inside his head.

“Two.”

Neville’s eyes met Ron’s, and he opened his mouth, the words sticking inside his throat as his mind caught up. Watch out, he wanted to say, but Ron bloody well knew that already, facing off against a snake like Draco. Instead, he settled for just nodding, feeling a drop of sweat form over his temple.

“Three.”

A bolt of red left Draco’s wand with a cry of Igniserpere, the ember spell crashing against Ron’s clypeus with a splash of crimson sparks and heat. Ron had played it smart though, shooting a jelly–legs with his wand arm while he kept his left one raised, heavy cracks spreading out along the translucent blue shield. Draco merely sidestepped the spell, letting it crash behind into Lockhart’s wards, and with a flourish of his wand, shot a bombarda.

“Shit!” Ron cursed, jumping to the side as the white spell exploded where his feet had been, peppering him with pieces of the wooden flooring. The shield on his arm fizzled away, and Ron coughed, blindingly casting an Incendio. Neville stood straight as a lick of flames extinguished themselves against the wards, the students around him crying out in fear and moving back as Draco quickly casted an Aegis to protect himself.

Unbidden, memories of last year came forwards for a moment, and Neville remembered how Ron had burnt away the deathweed in the chambers beneath that cerberus’ foot. Ron certainly had an affinity for fire based spells.

“Stupefy!” Draco’s voice broke through his thoughts, and Neville watched Ron grit as he sidestepped the spell, sweating from the fire he had conjured. The slytherin smiled smugly, shooting two quick diffindos at his friend and watching them break the arm-shield Ron cast again, “Ha, what happened now Weasley? Too much of a task for you to use some magic without Longbottom or that Granger holding your hands?”

“Shutup!” Ron spat, vitriol in every syllable as he jabbed his wand towards Draco with a cry of Rictumsempra, surprising him enough that Draco could only partially dodge it. Spinning due to his own momentum and the spell, Draco nonetheless managed to stabilise himself well enough that he only stumbled to his knee rather than falling flat. Raising hsi wand to cast a shield charm right as Ron’s stupefy came an inch from his body, Draco glared and slashed his wand through the air with a cry of lacero, the pink cutting spell slicing through Ron’s arm before he could even react.

Cries of anger rose through the Gryffindors, lacero’s reputation as a dark spell famous even amongst children. But since Lockhart didn’t intervene, the duel continued. Spells were exchanged rapidly, but within the next one minute, it became clear to them all.

Draco was winning, just because Ron’s left arm, the one he had been using to raise clypeus, was now bleeding. And it was not just that. The Slytherinw as nimbler than Ron, obviously having had some practice in dueling, and his repertoire of spells was definitely better, using out-of-the-syllabus spells which confused Ron into wrong decisions. As if on cue, Draco used a crimson spell, muttering its incantation too quietly for anyone to hear, and assuming it to be a stunner, Ron let it crash against another shield charm, only for it to turn out to be a shield-breaker instead.

Stumbling back from the backlash as his hand numbed, Ron was left defenceless in the face of the ropes that came flying out of Draco’s wand, binding him from his arms to his legs. However, before Ron could even shout or fall to the floor, the slytherin froze him on his legs, and Neville’s eyes widened.

If Ron’s knees didn’t touch the floor, then the duel was not considered complete on the ground of his inability to fight.

“Punch me now, you muggle-lover,” Draco spat, walking forwards, launching a bludgeoning curse at Ron’s stomach, making the boy grunt out in pain, anger blazing in his eyes, “of curse, the moment you are asked to follow the customs and traditions like a proper wizard, your Weasley blood rears its head. Pitiful, Weasley. I reckon your little girlfriend in the infirmary might have given me more of a fight. Silencio!”

Ron’s eyes widened, as the incantation for the cutting curse he had been mumbling became useless, his voice disappearing under the effects of Draco’s magic. “Now, I have recently learned this spell, so please bear with me Weasley,” Draco suddenly smiled brightly, flicking his wand at the pieces of wood that littered the platform to their right, a remnant from his earlier blasting curse, “Serpensortia!”

A cobra appeared in the place of the wood, and Neville’s eyes widened as he saw the giant fangs curve out, the cobra opening its mouth in a long, terrifying hiss and spreading its hood. The large snake coiled upon itself, raising its head up to an astonishing height and nearly coming to eye level with Draco and Ron, its slit eyes staring at them both as it snapped its jaws.

 “~hy”

“Huh?” he muttered, turning around ot look at Katie, “Did you say something?”

“No, but I can’t believe Lockhart is letting this happen,” the chaser whimpered, shaking her head in distress, “Why doesn’t he do anything? This duel has clearly ended,”

“~Why…bring….me?”

The voice came again, sharp, cold, piercing. Neville twisted as he looked back towards the cobra, finding it move slowly towards Ron, something familiar nagging him in the back of his head.

“Magic…Food…KILL!”

A splash of cold water travelled down his spine as he remembered the Halloween night, the much colder, much more horrifying voice which had spoken around him and the twins. This voice was similar to that, and yet, as he watched the cobra rear back its body, its eyes locked onto Ron as it tasted the air…Neville realised just what he had been hearing…or rather, who.

“KIL-”

“NO!” he shouted, watching the snake lunge at Ron at blinding speeds, instincts and worry for hsi friend kicking in and making him lean forwards, his eyes wide as he saw the cobra stop at once, its body relaxing a little as it twisted. Tasting the air, the serpent lowered his head and backed off for a moment. Sighing out in relief, Neville leaned back and nodded slowly, “Stay back. Don’t bite anyo–”

Screams cut him off, and Neville blinked as he looked around himself, finding himself standing alone, every student around him standing dozens of feet away, some with even wands aimed at him. Frowning, he looked down at himself, finding nothing wr—oh.

Oh fuck. 

His neck cracked as he looked up at Ron and Draco, their horrified eyes looking down at him, before he looked at the docile cobra. Behind them, both Lockhart and Snape had somehow come to stand together, both of them staring at him as if seeing him for the first time, indescribable expressions on both their faces. The sounds around him disappeared as Neville watched Snape quietly vanish the cobra, and Lockhart released and healed Ron. Students practically ran away from him, and dimly, Neville was aware of the filthy looks being sent his way. Already, he could hear their curses, their scorn and speculations he had been titled the actual Heir of Slytherin who had been petrifying students.

A flash of blonde hair entered his vision, and Neville looked up to find Lockhart’s grim smile staring down at him, before the DADA professor looked to their right, and Neville followed his gaze. Dumbledore’s quiet eyes met his as the Headmaster entered the hall, followed by Flitwick and McGonagall both.

Lockhart took a deliberate step back, his hand brushing Neville’s shoulder briefly in what might have once been reassurance, but now felt more like a silent condemnation. Neville swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very small beneath the collective weight of so many stares, so many judgments. The silence was thick, the kind that choked rather than calmed, and it only broke when Dumbledore finally approached.

The Headmaster’s eyes, blue and unreadable, lingered on Neville’s for a long moment. Not unkind, but not comforting either.

“Neville,” Dumbledore said, voice soft and grave, “I believe we should speak in my office.”

His legs moved before his mind caught up. With each step toward the doors, Neville felt the distance between himself and the rest of the world widen—the space between the frightened students, the mistrust in Ron’s gaze, and the blank shock on Draco’s face. The cobra was gone, but its echo still lingered in his ears.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t, not with the Fiendfyre that had started in his life.

As the Great Hall doors closed behind them with a heavy thud, Neville realized two things.

First, he had spoken Parseltongue.

Second, nothing would ever be the same again.