"Longbottom!"
Professor McGonagall's voice echoed off the stone walls, so sharp it made the ashes in the fireplace jitter.
"Because of your carelessness, the entire House's safety was put at risk! Starting today, you're banned from Hogsmeade, you'll serve detention from seven to nine every evening, and—" She paused, her eyebrows knotting so tightly they looked like they might tie themselves in a bow. "No one is to tell you the password to the tower!"
Neville's face went pale as parchment, his lips trembling as he tried to respond. All he managed was a barely audible, "Yes, Professor."
He clutched the Memory Orb Dylan had modified, its glass surface warm in his palm. The "canvas" of false memories inside was still blank—he hadn't had a chance to record anything before the punishment hit.
The days that followed were pure torture for Neville. Every morning, he had to stand in front of the Fat Lady's portrait ten minutes early, backpack slung over his shoulder, gripping the Memory Orb like a lifeline, waiting like a hungry bird for scraps. When the first student rushed by, mouth full of toast, mumbling the password, they barely spared him a glance. Neville would hurriedly focus on the orb, mentally scrawling passwords like "Lions Rule Supreme" or "Blast the Serpent" onto the blank canvas in his mind, terrified he'd forget if he hesitated.
Dylan's tweaks to the Memory Orb were a game-changer. No incantations needed, no worry about others seeing. Only Neville could see the words he etched with his thoughts when he stared into the orb—it was like sticking a Post-it note in his brain. And when it filled up? A quick unlocking charm from Dylan, and the canvas reset. Much less humiliating than constantly asking Dylan to log things for him.
Still, those few minutes waiting by the portrait felt like centuries.
"Well, look who it is—the Password Prodigy!"
Three troll security guards lumbered over, their massive clubs scraping the floor with an ear-grating screech. The lead troll jabbed a stubby finger into Neville's back, spittle flecking his uniform. "What's that? Forgot how to talk again? Need us to yell 'open the door' for you?"
A few passing students snickered. A girl glanced at Neville, her lips curling in a smirk. Some boys slowed down, winking and muttering "dolt" under their breath. Neville ducked his head lower, the strap of his backpack digging into his shoulder. The Memory Orb burned like a hot coal in his hand, but he didn't dare let go—he was terrified of losing even this small crutch.
Sir Cadogan's portrait had been relegated to a lonely platform off the tower's side. In his rusty armor, he spent his days sighing to empty corridors or slashing his sword at the air, venting his frustration at being demoted. The Fat Lady, back in her post, was now a nervous wreck. The troll guards, hired to protect her, loomed in the hallway, their bellowing voices loud enough to crack glass as they bragged about whose club was bigger. Whenever they spotted Neville, they'd stop mid-sentence to mock him with guttural, wheezing laughs. Only when someone gave the password and Neville slipped inside—or away—did their laughter fade behind him.
Neville thought that was as bad as it could get.
Then came the third morning.
He waited a full fifteen minutes before a timid first-year mumbled the password. As the Fat Lady's portrait swung open and Neville moved to slip inside, the lead troll's meaty paw grabbed his collar.
"Hold it!"
The troll's voice was like grinding stones. It yanked Neville back, pointing a stubby finger at the noticeboard by the portrait. "Read it!"
Neville looked up. A fresh parchment was pinned there, McGonagall's handwriting still wet with ink. It read:
Due to Neville Longbottom's reckless endangerment of House security, in addition to existing penalties, he is banned from attending or observing all Quidditch practices this term.
Neville froze. Standing outside the portrait like a doorman wasn't enough—now he couldn't even watch Quidditch matches this term?
Merlin's beard!
His grip on the Memory Orb tightened, the glass digging painfully into his palm. The trolls roared with laughter, the sound ringing in his ears. The first-year had long since bolted. The Fat Lady snapped, "Hurry up and get inside, don't block the way!"
Biting his lip, Neville spun and practically ran out of the tower, his uniform creased where the troll had grabbed him—a perfect match for the knot in his chest.
He arrived at the Great Hall earlier than usual, hoping to dodge the teasing stares, but the real storm was waiting for him at breakfast. The enchanted ceiling glowed with a faint teal shimmer, mimicking a starry sky. Golden platters brimmed with sizzling sausages and fried eggs, but the hissing oil couldn't drown out the students' whispers. Since the Sirius Black break-in, the Gryffindor table felt like it was under a Silencing Charm. Even Fred and George toned down their pranks, wary of the tense professors.
The hall was filled with low murmurs and the flapping of owl wings, unnervingly loud. Then, a barn owl's shadow loomed over Neville's plate, its wings nearly knocking over Ron's pumpkin juice. A fiery red envelope, edged with ornate scorch marks, dropped in front of him.
Neville's eyes widened, and his toast fell with a plop onto his plate. He knew that envelope all too well.
"A Howler!" Ron's voice cracked. "Run, Neville! My mum's Howler nearly burst my eardrums!"
Neville scrambled to his feet, banging his knee on the bench and wincing. He grabbed the envelope, its edges stiff and scalding, like it had just been pulled from a fire.
"No escaping it, Neville. Too late." Dylan's hand steadied his arm, then drew his wand. A faint blue glow flicked between Neville and the Howler—a Silencing Charm to spare everyone else the tirade.
Dylan pinched the ribbon on the Howler and tugged. Hermione's butter knife froze mid-air, her eyes wide. Across the hall, Slytherins set down their cutlery, ready for a show. Malfoy even pulled out a handkerchief, pretending to cover his ears.
Rip! The envelope tore open, transforming into a wrinkled, gaping mouth with paper teeth. It lunged forward, nearly brushing Neville's nose, red-hot fury rolling from its throat. Each bellow sent an invisible force that made Neville's fringe tremble. Tiny flecks of spittle sprayed from the paper lips, landing in his oatmeal.
Neville instinctively clapped his hands over his ears, his face showing he was getting an earful. But thanks to Dylan's charm, only he could hear the silent roar.
Ron, sitting right beside him, heard nothing and gaped. "Dylan, when I got a Howler…" His voice dripped with mock grievance. "It screamed about shaming the Weasley name in front of the whole school, and you just sat there watching me squirm!"
Dylan tucked his wand into his belt, casually biting into a strip of bacon. "I thought it might be some exploding Dark Magic thing. First time seeing one—didn't want to jump in blind, you know?"
His eyes flicked to the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was tapping his fork impatiently, the gawking students visibly disappointed. "Besides, this is different."
Neville's shoulders were still shaking, his eyes a mix of gratitude and dread. He opened his mouth to speak, but the Howler lunged again, its maw wide enough to swallow his fist. The paper trembled with rage until it finally spent itself, collapsing into a heap of crumpled red scraps.
Neville gingerly touched the pile. It crumbled to ash, drifting onto his plate. He let out a long, shaky breath.
Just then, a grey owl swooped down to Harry, dropping a parchment envelope tied with twine. It was smudged with dirt and bore a faint paw print—clearly from the Forbidden Forest.
"Hagrid's letter?" Harry recognized the scrawled handwriting, each letter looking like it had been wrestled into place. He tore it open, the parchment unfurling with Hagrid's blocky script practically bursting off the page:
Harry, fancy a cuppa this afternoon? Got some rock cakes baked. No need to leave school—I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall at three.
—Hagrid
"He must've heard about Black," Ron said, leaning over to read it, nudging Harry with his elbow. "Bet he knows something the Ministry's keeping quiet—like how Black got into the tower."
Harry's grip tightened on the letter, his mind flashing to that night, the silver knife glinting above Ron's bed. "Yeah, maybe he knows something about my parents too."
He looked at Dylan, who was slathering jam on a slice of bread. "Dylan, want to come? Hagrid's rock cakes are tough, but they're not bad with hot cocoa."
Dylan, mid-bite, shook his head. "Nah, the forecast said sleet near the Forest's edge." He nodded toward the castle windows, misted with frost. "I'm not trudging through mud for tea. Sand in my boots is the worst."
Neville quietly swept the Howler's ashes off his plate.
That afternoon, in the Gryffindor common room, the fireplace crackled softly, licking at pine logs. The warm glow lit up the tapestries, making the embroidered knights and princesses shimmer with golden edges.
Dylan sprawled in the deepest armchair in the corner, legs slung over a footstool like a lounging cat. A pair of muddy boots lay haphazardly by his feet—too lazy to put them away. He held Advanced Charm Theory, a book thick enough to double as a pillow, open on his lap. The pages, frayed at the edges, hadn't turned in half an hour. His eyes were half-closed, seemingly fixed on the dense spell annotations, but his pupils glinted with visions no one else could see.
The fire's warmth weighed on his eyelids, letting his mind drift into a scene woven by his Divination Sight. Before him unfolded a summer in Godric's Hollow. A seventeen-year-old Dumbledore sat under a hawthorn tree, sleeves rolled to his elbows, faint scars from spell experiments marking his forearms. Across from him, Grindelwald grinned, his golden hair gleaming in the sun, twirling a hawthorn twig with red berries swaying gently.
It was their first debate about "the greater good," a conversation that should've been heated. But it paused when Dumbledore reached out to brush a blade of grass off Grindelwald's shoulder. Their eyes met, sparking briefly before flicking away, leaving only the rustle of the hawthorn leaves in the breeze.
"Tch, so that's when it started," Dylan muttered, shifting to a comfier position, pressing the book against his stomach.
The vision shifted to a kitchen in Godric's Hollow. Dumbledore was magically stirring a stew pot, the aroma wafting out. Grindelwald leaned against the doorframe, spinning Dumbledore's wand between his fingers like it was alive.
"Your brother doesn't seem to like me," Grindelwald said suddenly, his tone laced with casual provocation.
Dumbledore didn't turn, just lowered the pot's flame. "Aberforth is just… worried about me."
Grindelwald stepped forward, lightly clasping Dumbledore's wandless hand from behind. Their shadows merged on the wall as the stew bubbled, the moment trembling with quiet intimacy.
"Tch, tch, tch," Dylan chuckled, his lips curling. "Wonder if old Dumbledore would set me ablaze with Fiendfyre if he knew I was peeking at his old love story."
He smirked. "Blimey, this gossip's just too juicy."
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