At some point, the six students who gathered for morning practice had settled into a fixed routine, splitting into two groups. Neville and Hermione took turns sparring with Harry, while Ron, Seamus, and Dean practiced together on the side.
Everyone had grown accustomed to this arrangement, but today, Ron broke the pattern, insisting on joining Harry's group for practice.
"Ron, are you sure you want to spar with us?" In the Room of Requirement, Harry eyed Ron, who was gripping his wand tightly, and asked uncertainly.
"Absolutely," Ron nodded firmly.
"Well, then…" Harry's gaze shifted between Hermione and Neville, who were watching Ron with a mix of tension and anticipation. Finally, his eyes settled on Neville.
"Neville, why don't you spar with Ron?" Harry said, turning to Neville.
"Why not Hermione?" Ron protested without thinking, then paused and added, "I mean, I'm not familiar with Neville's abilities. Shouldn't I face someone I know better for practice?"
"Enemies won't care whether you're familiar with them or not," Harry said, gesturing for everyone to step back from Neville and Ron. "Besides, Hermione's a bit stronger than Neville. If you can't even hold your own against Neville's attacks, joining our training will only slow your progress—and ours."
Meanwhile, Neville hefted an unsharpened longsword and stepped forward to face Ron.
"Ready, Ron?" Harry glanced at Neville, who held the sword in one hand and his wand in the other, poised to strike, then at Ron, whose expression was taut with nerves.
"Ready!" Ron steeled himself. He had to beat Neville. According to Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches, bravery was the key to catching a witch's eye.
"Then… begin!"
Ron raised his wand and shouted, "Stupefy!"
A thick red beam shot from the tip of his wand, but Neville deftly twisted his body mid-sprint, and the Stunning Spell grazed past his chest, slamming into a stone pillar and leaving a charred mark.
Neville's quick reflexes caught Ron off guard, but he didn't hesitate. "Expelliarmus!" His unicorn-core wand flicked rapidly, sending two Disarming Charms simultaneously toward Neville's left and right hands. A smirk tugged at Ron's lips—this double Disarming Charm was his signature move, unbeatable in duels against Seamus and Dean.
This time, Neville didn't dodge. With no chance to evade while sprinting, he instead flicked his wand swiftly. An invisible shield materialized in front of him, trembling as the two red beams struck it. The spells glanced off, blasting small craters into the floor.
Ron's attacks had failed, and Neville's sprint had gained full momentum.
Panic crept into Ron's chest. He fired spell after spell at Neville, but no matter what he tried, Neville maintained the transparent shield in front of him. Occasionally, Ron's attacks shattered it, but Neville always summoned a new one before Ron could strike again.
Then, standing frozen and frantically waving his wand, Ron watched in stunned disbelief as Neville closed the distance and knocked him flat with a single swing of his sword.
"That doesn't count! You didn't even use a spell to beat me!" Ron sat up from the floor, grumbling indignantly.
"Ron, a fight isn't a duel. Any method that secures victory is fair," Neville said, stowing his wand and offering a hand to the reluctant Ron. "Besides, your fighting style is too rigid. Against an opponent with a melee weapon, you should've used Transfiguration or another spell to trap me in place while moving yourself, looking for an opening."
"Easy for you to say," Ron muttered, taking Neville's hand and standing up, still unconvinced. "Who has time to think of all that in the middle of a fight?"
"Harry and Hermione manage it just fine," Neville replied. "Take a look…"
He pointed toward Harry and Hermione's sparring match. Ron turned to see Harry conjure a massive boulder to block Hermione's Reducto. In the ensuing cloud of dust, Harry summoned a thick black mist around Hermione's position. Though she quickly dispersed it with a Tergeo, Harry seized the moment, transfiguring the shattered stones around her into a flock of birds that swarmed her field of vision. As they distracted her, he darted toward her left flank.
"Impedimenta!" A wide-ranging Jinx radiated outward from Hermione, slowing Harry's sprint. Breaking free from the birds, Hermione didn't hesitate, waving her wand to summon a ring of fire around herself.
Though the group couldn't hear the action due to their Muffliato charm, the visuals alone left Ron's jaw hanging. Especially when he glanced at Seamus and Dean, still trading basic spells in their usual back-and-forth, uninspired routine.
Seeing Ron's stunned expression, Neville clapped him on the shoulder. "That's what a real wizard's duel looks like."
"They fight like that all the time?" Ron rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
"Ever since Hermione was chosen as a Triwizard Champion last year, Harry's been training with her at this intensity for ages. Haven't you noticed?" Neville asked curiously.
Ron opened his mouth but had no reply. What could he say—that he'd spent most of last year's morning practices goofing off with Seamus and Dean?
Even after morning practice ended, as they returned to the dorms to change and headed to the Great Hall for breakfast, Ron remained unusually subdued. At breakfast, he only managed five chicken drumsticks—a record low. But when Angelina, a tall dark-skinned girl with long braids, approached to tell him that, with Oliver gone, the Quidditch team was holding tryouts for new players, Ron's spirits finally perked up at the mention of his favorite sport.
As owls swooped in with letters and packages, Harry, already full, idly flipped through the timetable Professor McGonagall had just distributed while waiting for Hermione to finish eating. That is, until an owl dropped a soggy copy of the Daily Prophet* into Hermione's bowl of pumpkin porridge, splashing the distracted Harry in the face with it.
"Oi!" Harry yelped, nearly leaping up to throttle the owl. Hermione pulled him back into his seat and drew her wand, starting to clean the porridge off him.
"Oh, Harry, you're such a mess," she said, drying his robes with a flick of her wand.
Nearby, Ron watched Hermione's casual care for Harry with a sour expression, suddenly finding his chicken drumstick far less appetizing.
Once his robes were dry, Harry tugged them back over his head, while Hermione buried her face behind the Daily Prophet.
"Anything worth reading?" Harry asked after she folded the paper and set it aside.
"Nothing," she said curtly, placing the rolled-up paper next to her plate. "No mention of you or Dumbledore—nothing at all."
"Take a look at this!" Ron groaned loudly, drawing Harry and Hermione's attention. "History of Magic, double Potions, Divination, and double Defense Against the Dark Arts… Binns, Snape, Trelawney, and that Umbridge woman, all in one day! I wish Fred and George would hurry up with those Skiving Snackboxes…"
"What's that? Did my ears deceive me?" Fred and George appeared out of nowhere, shoving Harry closer to Hermione and flanking Ron with wicked grins. "Hogwarts' prefect wouldn't be plotting to skip class, would he?"
"Look at this miserable day," Ron said, shoving his timetable under Fred's (or possibly George's) nose. "I've never seen a Monday this bad."
"You're not wrong, little bro. It's a rotten one," Fred (or maybe George) said, scanning the schedule. "Tell you what—to soothe your fragile soul, we'll offer you a few Nosebleed Nougats at a discount. Nine Knuts each, a steal!"
"Why so cheap?" Ron asked, suspicion written all over his face.
"Because the bleeding doesn't stop until you're shriveled up like a prune. We haven't worked out the antidote yet," George (or possibly Fred) mumbled through a mouthful of smoked fish.
"Thanks, but I'll pass," Ron said glumly, stuffing the timetable into his pocket. "I'll just go to class."
"Speaking of Skiving Snackboxes," Hermione said, fixing the twins with a stern look, "I don't care if you test them on yourselves, but if I catch you experimenting on other students—especially first-years—I won't hesitate to let Professor McGonagall know. Or, better yet, Mrs. Weasley."
Hermione knew that if anyone could rein in Fred and George, it was their mother. But just when she thought she had the upper hand, the twins exchanged a glance and turned to Harry.
"Harry, control your girlfriend," they said in unison, loudly enough for half the hall to hear.
Heads turned. Hermione's face flushed crimson, and she bolted from the Great Hall, head down.
"Hermione! Wait—your bag!" Harry grabbed her backpack from the bench and chased after her.
But at the sound of his voice, Hermione only ran faster.
"How about you, Seamus? Fancy a Skiving Snackbox?" George (or maybe Fred) asked, turning to Seamus.
"Nah, I think I'll manage," Seamus replied.
"You'll change your tune soon enough," Fred said, slathering butter on a piece of toast. "You're fifth-years now. You'll be begging for those Snackboxes before long."
"Why would being a fifth-year make me want to skip class?" Dean asked, leaning over.
"Because it's O.W.L.s year," George (or possibly Fred) said.
"So what?" Dean looked baffled.
"O.W.L.s year means endless exams, grinding you down like a whetstone on your nose until the skin's rubbed raw," Fred (or maybe George) said with gleeful malice.
"Half our year had breakdowns over O.W.L.s," George (or possibly Fred) added cheerfully. "Crying fits, temper tantrums—someone even kept fainting, didn't they?"
Amid the chatter, the bell rang, signaling the end of Professor Binns' soporific lecture.
Harry, bleary-eyed, dragged himself up from his desk, prodded by Hermione as they hurried to Potions.
"Before we begin today," Snape said, striding to the front of the silent classroom and fixing the students with a severe glare, "I must remind you that next June, you will face an important examination. It will test how much you've learned about the preparation and use of potions. Though some in this class are undeniably dim-witted, I expect you all to scrape a passing grade in your O.W.L.s… or I will be most displeased."
His gaze lingered on Neville, who sucked in a sharp breath, visibly shaken.
Today, Snape tasked them with brewing a Blood-Replenishing Potion commonly used at St. Mungo's. Compared to the potions they'd studied in earlier years, this one was markedly more complex. By the end of the lesson, most students had barely completed two-thirds of the process. Only Harry and Hermione's cauldrons contained the deep, rust-scented crimson liquid the potion required. The worst performers—aside from Crabbe and Goyle, whose cauldrons looked more like beetroot soup—were Neville's.
In Snape's words: "I have never seen such a uniformly grey potion."
Without hesitation, Snape vanished the contents of Neville's cauldron, assigned a fifteen-inch essay to the class, and swept out of the room as the bell rang.
The Gryffindors thought Snape's Potions class was the low point of the morning, but they soon learned that Umbridge's Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson would be far worse.
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