"What do you mean, Neville?" Ron turned around, his brown eyes full of confusion. "Why does Professor Greengrass want you to change wands? It looks perfectly fine to me."
Neville didn't answer right away.
He lowered his head, his gaze lingering on the wand he held tightly. The wood had the smooth luster of age, and a few deep scratches ran along its shaft.
He gently traced those marks with his fingertip, as if touching a distant, hazy memory.
After a long silence, he finally looked up and spoke in a low, slow voice. "Because… this was my father's wand."
He paused, his Adam's apple moving slightly. "Before, I thought… by holding it, I could be as brave as he was, and constantly remind myself....…"
His voice grew softer and softer until it faded into an almost inaudible sigh. "It seems I was wrong."
"No wonder!" Hermione gasped, her brown eyes widening. "No wonder your performance in Charms Class has always been a bit… well, unstable. It's probably because the wand doesn't suit you."
As she spoke, she recalled her first trip to buy a wand when she had just entered Hogwarts. "Mr. Ollivander told me it's not the wizard who chooses the wand, but the wand that chooses the wizard. Using your father's wand is like running in shoes that don't fit!"
"He told me that too," Harry said with a nod. "The wand chooses the wizard, Neville."
Neville remained silent, his fingertips unconsciously brushing against a familiar indentation at the wand's end.
Hermione's words pierced something deep within his heart like a needle.
He remembered two years ago, in the dim, crowded little room of Ollivander's wand shop, when his grandmother had insisted on buying him a brand-new wand of his own. For the first time in his life, he had stubbornly refused.
He had clutched his father's old wand tightly, as if it were the only thread connecting him to his parents lying in hospital beds—a symbol of their courage and his longing.
In the end, Mrs. Augusta Longbottom, who was always strict, saw the rare determination in her grandson's eyes and, uncharacteristically, relented.
She allowed him to "inherit" this meaningful wand.
But now, Professor Greengrass's words had struck him like a bucket of cold water.
"Give it back to your father," Harry said softly, breaking the silence. His green eyes were filled with understanding and concern. "He can use it again now, can't he?"
He was referring to Frank Longbottom, who was recovering well at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
"Go to Mr. Ollivander's and buy a new wand—one that's truly yours." Harry patted Neville's arm lightly, his tone growing warmer. "Ron just went a while ago."
"That's right!"
Ron immediately straightened up. Unable to think of anything more comforting to say, he eagerly pulled out his new wand from his robe pocket.
"Look—it's willow, fourteen inches, with a unicorn hair core. Much better than the old one that kept breaking."
He gave it a careful wave, and the sturdy shaft cut cleanly through the air with a faint swish.
"Neville, you really should go try it," Hermione advised. "Mr. Ollivander will definitely have a wand that suits you!"
But before Ron could respond, their path in the corridor was suddenly blocked.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville instinctively looked up, their relaxed expressions freezing in an instant.
It was Draco Malfoy.
He was dressed in a black traveling robe, the silver-green Slytherin crest faintly visible on the cuffs. His platinum-blonde hair was no longer perfectly slicked back but fell more naturally, giving him a softer look.
What stood out most, however, was his gaze. The usual arrogance and disdain were gone, replaced by a cold, focused calm that made him seem like an entirely different person.
Behind him stood the towering figure of Gregory Goyle. Yet even Goyle's expression had changed—it no longer carried that simple-minded look, but instead… something resembling seriousness.
Or perhaps, he was merely imitating Malfoy's composure. He stood silently, a looming shadow just one step behind.
Malfoy's eyes swept over the four of them before finally resting on Harry. There was no smirk, no hint of mockery. Instead, he gave a faint nod, his movements deliberate and formal.
"Potter," Malfoy said evenly, his tone steady and controlled, devoid of his usual drawl. "Longbottom. Weasley. Granger."
He called out each of their surnames in turn, as if confirming something.
"Malfoy," Harry replied, his tone calm but cautious. "What do you want? Trying to get justice for Parkinson?"
Malfoy ignored Harry's guarded tone. He stepped forward slightly, though he kept a reasonable distance. Goyle followed closely behind.
"Their affairs have nothing to do with me."
Malfoy's eyes shifted to the wand in Neville's hand. There was a brief flicker of scrutiny in his gaze, but no trace of mockery. "Ollivander's choice is indeed important."
He paused for a moment, as if deciding that was enough preamble, then spoke more directly.
"I'm not here to cause trouble—at least, not in the way you think." His voice was clear and composed. "I'm here to issue a formal challenge, Potter."
"Challenge?" Ron scoffed, disbelief written all over his face. "What trick are you trying now? Want us to 'accidentally' run into Filch in the trophy room again?"
Malfoy's cold gaze swept over Ron, silencing him at once.
"Weasley, your imagination is as barren as ever," Malfoy said flatly, as though stating a simple fact. "I'm talking about a proper duel—official, public, and supervised by a Professor or Prefect."
Harry frowned. "You want to duel me? Why?"
He hadn't expected this at all.
"Why?" Malfoy repeated. "To raise my dueling rank, of course." His tone was brisk, without a hint of hesitation or shame, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"I hear your Expelliarmus is quite powerful." He lifted his chin slightly, that familiar trace of pride flickering back into place. "You might actually make a worthy opponent."
"A worthy opponent?" Hermione repeated incredulously. "So that's why you're challenging Harry?"
"Of course." Malfoy's gaze locked on Harry again. "According to the Dueling board, isn't he the strongest among the second-year Gryffindors?"
His tone was flat, neither sarcastic nor flattering—just stating a fact. "Defeating you would earn me plenty of points and recognition. It's perfectly reasonable."
"Oh, really?" Ron cut in, unable to resist. "Then what's Goyle here for? To be your cheerleader? Or to hand you your 'props' when no one's looking?"
This time, Malfoy didn't rise to the bait. He didn't even glance at Ron. Instead, he made a small gesture toward Goyle. The usually silent Goyle suddenly spoke, his deep voice echoing awkwardly through the corridor.
"All Slytherin… second-year students have been defeated by Draco."
He spoke clumsily, as though reciting a memorized line.
The hallway fell silent.
The four of them exchanged looks, disbelief written across their faces.
Malfoy had defeated all the second-year Slytherins?
Harry met Malfoy's calm gray eyes and, for the first time, felt how unfamiliar the other boy seemed.
Still, he asked slowly, "A formal dueling challenge?"
"Yes." Malfoy nodded. "You set the time and place. You choose the supervisor. Standard dueling rules. I'll accept any reasonable outcome."
He paused, then added, "Of course, that's if you accept, Potter. Or are you afraid?"
The last line carried a trace of familiar provocation, though it sounded more like a necessary formality to complete the challenge.
~~~~~~~
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