The group stumbled back toward the castle from the shore of the Great Lake, their hair plastered to their heads, their clothes dripping in steady streams. The night air bit against their skin, but none of them complained. It wasn't the cold that troubled them. It was what they had just faced.
Hermione was pale, hugging her arms tight around herself. Viktor walked in silence, lips pressed into a grim line. Neville clutched the small carriage of plants as if it were a shield.
Only Harry's expression was steady, unreadable. His eyes were narrowed, thoughtful—not shaken.
Finally Neville broke the silence, his voice trembling.
"I—I thought the giant squid was harmless," he whispered. "That's what everyone says! That it— that it just floats around, lazy, sometimes splashes the first-years when they dip their feet in…"
Hermione nodded quickly. "He's right. I've read about it—everyone says the squid is gentle. It's even helped children who fell into the lake before. I remember Dennis Creevey told me, back in second year, when he fell in during the Sorting, it pushed him back to the shore." Her eyes darted toward Harry, searching for answers. "It's never attacked anyone before. Why us?"
Harry stopped walking. The others froze when he turned back, his expression grave, voice calm but cutting through the night.
"It didn't see us as students," Harry said. "It saw us as intruders. And worse—as a threat."
Hermione frowned. "A threat? We weren't doing anything to it!"
Harry shook his head. "You saw where it attacked, didn't you? It was near the merpeople's village. That squid—" he jabbed a finger toward the black, endless waters— "isn't just floating around for show. It's the protector of the lake. Everything down there—the merfolk, the creatures, the plants—they're part of its territory. We swam straight into their world, into their homes. Do you really think it would let four humans roam around freely without testing us?"
Neville's mouth went dry. "So you're saying… it wasn't attacking us just because… it hated us?"
Harry nodded slowly. "No. It was protecting them. That's why it struck. Its loyalty is to the merpeople, not to us. Not to Hogwarts."
Hermione bit her lip, looking troubled. "That makes sense. But Harry—" her voice dropped— "the way it fought, the way it nearly crushed us… if it's that protective, why has it never attacked anyone else? Plenty of students go near the lake."
"Because no one else went that deep," Harry answered simply. "No one else wandered straight into the merpeople's village. To the squid, we weren't curious students. We were invaders."
Neville shivered, hugging the carriage tighter. "But you… you weren't afraid, were you, Harry?"
Harry's jaw tightened. His mind flashed back to the creature's eyes, the tolling roar, the writhing tentacles that could have torn him in two. Fear had clawed at him—yes—but not in the way they thought.
"I wasn't afraid of it," Harry admitted, his tone low, almost detached. "Not really. Beating it, fighting it—that wasn't the issue."
Viktor narrowed his eyes. "Then vhat was?"
Harry's gaze darkened. "Time."
Hermione blinked. "Time?"
Harry turned to face them fully now, his voice edged with steel. "The gillyweed. We had maybe an hour. An hour before the magic wore off and we couldn't breathe. That… was the real danger. Not the squid, not the merfolk. If we'd fought too long, wasted too much time—" He clenched his fist. "We'd have drowned like helpless children."
Hermione's stomach dropped. She hadn't thought of that. Neville's eyes widened with dawning horror. Viktor's grim face finally betrayed unease.
"That's why I pulled us back," Harry said firmly. "That's why I didn't keep fighting. It wasn't cowardice—it was calculation. I wasn't about to risk all of us because we wanted a look at something we weren't ready for."
For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy as stone. Then Neville whispered, almost to himself:
"So it's… not invincible?"
Harry shook his head. "No. Strong, yes. Protective, yes. But not unstoppable." His eyes flicked toward the lake, where the moonlight rippled across the surface like mocking laughter. "It was loyalty that drove it to attack us, not raw power. Remember that."
Hermione exhaled shakily, her breath fogging in the cold night. She studied Harry carefully, her sharp mind working. He hadn't flinched, not even once. He had stared down the guardian of the lake with the same cold resolve he carried into every danger.
What frightened her most wasn't the squid. It was Harry.
Hermione had grown closer to Viktor after the lake incident. Everywhere Harry went, he could spot the pair—Hermione walking with her head bent toward Viktor's broad shoulder, Viktor's usually grim face softened as he listened to her talk about books, laws, and causes he barely understood but indulged because it was Hermione speaking.
It didn't escape Harry that Viktor's fangirls were furious. In the library, they would glare daggers at Hermione over stacks of books. In the courtyard, whispers would follow Hermione's every step: "She doesn't even like Quidditch—how does she get Krum?" But Hermione brushed them off, more engrossed in discussing Arithmancy or her latest campaign idea than in schoolyard jealousy.
Harry left them to it. He had his own world, and lately, much of that world was Neville Longbottom.
Harry pushed open the door of an unused classroom one evening. The smell of herbs, bubbling liquids, and singed cauldron bottoms hit him immediately. The place was cluttered but alive—jars of dried herbs lined the windowsills, cauldrons simmered on makeshift stands, and a faint green glow came from a plant Harry didn't recognize.
Neville stood hunched over a cauldron, muttering to himself as he carefully dropped in leaves of Gillyweed. The potion hissed, then settled into a steady blue shimmer. Neville wiped his brow, nervous as always, and then spotted Harry.
"Harry! You shouldn't sneak up on me like that," Neville said, though his smile betrayed that he didn't mind.
Harry leaned against the doorway, smirking. "This is impressive, Neville. Snape's classroom never looked this… alive."
Neville's cheeks flushed with pride. "It's easier here. No one breathing down my neck. I can actually think without worrying if I'm going to get called a dunderhead."
Harry walked in, inspecting jars labeled in Neville's shaky handwriting. "You know, Neville, you're better at this than you give yourself credit for. You've got a gift."
Neville hesitated, eyes flickering down at the potion. His fingers tightened around the spoon he was stirring with. "It's not just about being good at it, Harry."
Harry tilted his head. "Then what is it about?"
For a long moment, Neville didn't answer. He stared into the bubbling cauldron as though the truth itself were floating in the potion. Then, with a deep breath, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"My parents," he said.
Harry straightened, suddenly serious. He had heard rumors but never pressed.
"They're in St. Mungo's," Neville continued, his tone trembling but steady. "They were tortured… tortured into insanity. They don't even recognize me anymore. They've been like that since I was a baby."
Hermione's voice echoed in Harry's memory—her casual mention of Neville visiting St. Mungo's, her worried looks when Neville flinched in Snape's class. But hearing it from Neville himself made Harry's chest tighten.
Neville looked up, his eyes filled with quiet determination. "That's why I study herbs. Why I study ingredients. Why I spend every free moment in here. If there's even the smallest chance I can find a cure… something that can bring them back… I have to try. I owe it to them."
The silence that followed was thick. Harry felt the weight of Neville's confession settle between them.
Finally, Harry put a hand on Neville's shoulder. "You're stronger than most people here, Neville. Don't let anyone make you think otherwise. Not Snape, not anyone."
Neville's lips quirked in a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Harry. Really."
As Harry left Neville's little sanctuary that night, he felt an unfamiliar pang of respect. He had always thought Neville was clumsy, timid, forgetful—but beneath that, there was iron. A boy who wasn't driven by fame or power, but by love and loss.
Harry thought of his own parents, stolen from him before he could even know them. He had no chance to fight for them, no way to bring them back. Neville, at least, still had hope—fragile as it was.
The Gryffindor dormitory was unusually quiet that night. The only sound came from the faint crackle of the common room fire down below, muffled by the thick stone walls. In their corner, Harry and Neville had pulled their four-poster beds close, curtains drawn around both until it felt like one secret hideaway.
Inside the cocoon of curtains, Neville's lamp glowed dimly, casting long shadows over the pile of parchment and potion ingredients scattered between them. Neville had a book open on his lap, mumbling about properties of Mimbulus mimbletonia, while Harry leaned against the headboard, lost in thought.
Finally, Harry broke the silence.
"Neville," he said quietly, so that even the portraits outside couldn't overhear, "I've been thinking about your parents."
Neville looked up, eyes instantly alert. "What about them?" His voice carried both hope and fear, like he was bracing himself for disappointment.
Harry hesitated. Should I tell him about the Force? About how deep my training has gone? But he pushed the thought aside. Neville already suspected more than Harry ever explained. He didn't need labels—just results.
"You know I've… learned things," Harry continued. "Things that go beyond the magic we're taught here. I've seen into minds. Calmed creatures no spell could tame. Maybe… maybe I could try with your parents."
Neville's book slid shut on his lap. His hands trembled slightly. "You mean… heal them? Make them remember?"
"I don't know if it'll work," Harry admitted honestly. "They've been treated for years with no success. But if there's even a chance, shouldn't we try?"
Neville's throat worked as he swallowed hard. For a long moment, he couldn't answer. Then he whispered, almost like he was afraid to speak the hope out loud:
"You really think you can do it?"
Harry met his gaze steadily. "I can't promise anything. But I can promise I'll try harder than anyone else has. I won't give up after one attempt. I've… done things, Neville. Things that shouldn't have been possible."
Neville thought of the giant squid bowing to Harry's silent will, of how the marauding Grindylows scattered when Harry raised his hand. He nodded, eyes glistening.
"If anyone can do it… it's you," Neville said. His voice cracked, but there was conviction there.
Harry reached across the space between their beds, placing a steadying hand on Neville's shoulder. "Then let's plan it. Quietly. No professors, no Ministry. Just us."
Neville let out a shaky laugh, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "Gran would kill me if she knew. But… Harry, if this works—if they even remember me for one moment—I'd do anything to make it happen."
Harry leaned back, staring at the fabric canopy above. For the first time in days, he felt the Force hum with a new kind of purpose. Not just for battles, not just for power. But for healing.
And deep inside, he knew: If he could give Neville back his parents, he would prove to himself that he wasn't just becoming another Dumbledore or Voldemort. He could be something else entirely.