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"What do you mean, Neville?" Ron turned around, his brown eyes filled with confusion. "Why would Professor Greengrass tell you to change wands? That one looks fine to me."
Neville did not answer at once.
He lowered his gaze and let it rest on the wand clenched in his hand. The wood carried a soft sheen worn smooth by years of touch. Along the shaft ran a few faint but deep scratches, marks of time that caught the light in thin silver lines.
With the pad of his thumb he traced those tiny grooves as though the touch might bring back some distant, half-blurred memory.
Only after a long silence did he lift his head. His voice came low and slow. "Because… this was my dad's wand."
He paused, his Adam's apple rising and falling. "I used to think… if I held it, I could be as brave as he was. That it would remind me, every single moment…"
His voice grew softer and softer, until at last it was little more than a whisper. "I was wrong."
"No wonder!" Hermione drew in a sudden breath, her brown eyes flying wide. "No wonder your spellwork in class has always been a little… well, unsteady. The wand itself must have been holding you back."
She remembered the day they had first gone to buy their wands, the cramped little shop dimly lit and heavy with the scent of polished wood. "Mr. Ollivander told me once that it is never the wizard who chooses the wand. It is always the wand that chooses the wizard. Using your father's wand is like trying to run in shoes that do not fit."
"He said the same thing to me," Harry also added with a nod. "The wand chooses the wizard."
Neville stayed silent, fingertips absently tracing a familiar notch near the wand's end. Hermione's words had struck a hidden place deep inside him.
He thought back to that day two years ago in Ollivander's shadowed shop, when his grandmother had insisted on buying him a brand-new wand, one that would truly be his. For the first time in his life, he had resisted her will.
He had clung to his father's old wand as though it were the single thread binding him to the man who lay in a hospital bed, proof of a courage Neville longed with all his heart to match.
In the end, the stern Augusta Longbottom, confronted with that rare and unyielding stubbornness burning in her grandson's eyes, did something almost unheard of for her… she yielded.
She allowed him to "inherit" the wand that carried so much meaning.
Yet now, Professor Greengrass's words fell on him like a bucket of cold water, shocking him awake.
"Give it back to your father," Harry said at last, breaking the hush. Understanding and quiet concern softened the green of his eyes. "He might need it again, don't you think?"
Harry was referring to Frank Longbottom, who lay in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and was, against all odds, slowly improving.
"Go to Mr. Ollivander and buy a new wand that truly belongs to you." Harry gave Neville's arm a gentle pat, his voice lifting into a lighter note. "Ron went there not long ago."
"That's right!"
Ron straightened in a hurry. He could not think of anything comforting to add, so he tugged his own new wand from the inner pocket of his robes, eager to show it off.
"Look here. Willow wood, fourteen inches, unicorn tail hair for the core. Works far better than the old one that snapped."
He gave it a cautious sweep. The solid shaft cuts through the air with a soft, low whine.
"Neville, you really ought to try," Hermione urged with quiet warmth. "Mr. Ollivander always finds the wand that fits."
Ron had barely finished speaking when the corridor ahead of them suddenly filled, the way forward blocked.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville all looked up at once. The easy lightness on their faces froze in an instant.
Draco Malfoy stood there.
Today he wore a long black travel cloak, the silver and green of Slytherin glinting faintly at the cuffs. His platinum hair, once always combed into perfect order, now fell more freely around his face, softer and looser than before.
But it was his eyes that caught their attention most. The familiar flicker of scorn, that easy arrogance so inseparable from him, was gone. In its place lay a cool, almost icy focus, as though someone entirely different now stood before them.
Behind him loomed Gregory Goyle, massive as ever. Yet even Goyle's expression had changed. Gone was the dull, brute ferocity that usually hung on his face. In its place lay something close to… seriousness, as though he was trying to mimic Malfoy's measured intent. He followed one careful step behind, silent and heavy as a mountain that chose to move.
Malfoy's gaze swept over the four of them with quiet precision before coming to rest on Harry. He offered no mocking smile, no sharp remark to mark the encounter. Instead, he inclined his head the barest fraction, the motion deliberate, as though practiced until it carried a trace of formal grace.
"Potter." Malfoy's voice was steady, stripped of its usual drawl, carrying little emotion. "Longbottom. Weasley. Granger."
He spoke each surname in turn, like someone ticking off names on a list.
"Malfoy," Harry returned evenly. His tone was calm, though his eyes remained guarded. "What is it you want? Have you come to defend Parkinson's honor?"
Malfoy ignored the edge in Harry's question. He took a small step forward, careful to keep a span of safe space between them. Goyle moved in perfect rhythm at his side.
"Their quarrel has nothing to do with me."
His attention shifted to the wand in Neville's hand. A brief, sharp glint of appraisal passed through his eyes, but there was no hint of mockery. "Ollivander's choice matters more than most people realize."
He paused for a heartbeat, as if deciding that was enough of a beginning, then spoke with crisp certainty.
"I am not here to cause trouble. At least not in the way you are used to." His voice carried clear and firm across the corridor. "I am here to offer a formal challenge, Potter."
"Challenge?" Ron let out a short, incredulous laugh. "What now? Planning another clever trick? Want us to just 'happen' to bump into Filch in the trophy room again?"
Malfoy's gaze swept over Ron, cold and sharp, and the look alone made Ron choke back whatever else he had been about to say.
"Weasley, your imagination remains as limited as ever." Malfoy's tone stayed flat, almost casual, as if he were stating a fact. "I am speaking of an official duel, in a public setting, with a professor or a prefect to oversee it."
Harry's brow furrowed. "You want to duel me? Why?"
He had not expected the conversation to turn this way.
"Why? To climb the dueling rankings, of course." Malfoy answered without the slightest hesitation, his certainty almost disconcerting in its matter-of-factness.
"I hear your Expelliarmus is very impressive." He lifted his chin the faintest fraction, and with it came a flicker of his old pride. "That makes you a worthy opponent, doesn't it?"
"A worthy opponent?" Hermione could not hold back. Her voice carried both disbelief and doubt. "That is why you've come looking for Harry?"
"Of course." Malfoy's grey eyes locked onto Harry again. "Isn't he the strongest among the Gryffindor second-year students?"
There was no sneer in his tone, and no trace of flattery either. He spoke as if attaching a label, nothing more. "Beating you will earn me points and recognition. It is only logical."
"Oh really?" Ron could not resist cutting in. "Then why drag Goyle along? To clap and cheer for you? Or maybe slip you a trick or two when no one's looking?"
This time Malfoy did not even glance his way. He made a small motion with one hand, and the ever-silent Goyle rumbled to life. His voice was deep and heavy, rolling out like stones shifting underground.
"Slytherin… second-year students… Draco beat them all."
The words came haltingly, as if he were reciting something drilled into him.
Silence fell over the corridor.
The four friends looked at one another, each reading the same astonishment in the others' eyes.
Malfoy had defeated every Slytherin in their year?
Harry studied the flat, unreadable grey of Malfoy's gaze and, for the first time, felt as though he were facing a stranger.
Still he spoke, his voice measured. "A formal duel?"
"Yes." Malfoy inclined his head. "You choose the time and the place. You choose whoever will oversee it. We follow the standard rules of a proper duel. I will accept any outcome that can be called fair and reasonable."
He paused, letting the quiet stretch before speaking again. His voice carried the faintest edge of challenge, almost like a formality he could not omit. "Of course, all of that depends on whether you accept the challenge, Potter. Or is it that you are afraid?"
The last question slipped from his tongue with the first real spark of familiar provocation. Yet even that spark felt restrained, more ritual than ridicule, as though the words were required to complete the challenge rather than born of true mockery.
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[Chapter End's]
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