The Monday morning following the Halloween feast brought a biting, grey frost that coated the stone battlements of Hogwarts in a brittle layer of white. Inside the castle, the rumors had mutated into something legendary. By breakfast, the story of the second-floor bathroom had traveled from the Gryffindor table to the furthest corners of the dungeons, with each retelling adding fictitious elements of dark hexes and advanced martial prowess to the trio's survival.
But inside Room 3B, the atmosphere remained entirely stripped of romance.
Richard Prewett stood behind his podium, his dark eyes fixed on the first-year Gryffindors as they filed into the room. Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked in together, taking up a row right in the center aisle. There was a subtle change in how the rest of the class treated them now; even Neville Longbottom looked at Ron with a degree of cautious reverence.
Richard waited until the heavy oak door swung shut, locking into place with its signature, heavy click.
"Open your texts to page seventy-four," Richard commanded, his voice slicing through the quiet chatter like a razor. "The core principles of dueling maneuvers and foundational footwork."
The students scrambled to pull out their books, the rustle of parchment filling the space. Harry opened his copy of The Combatant's Guide to Kinetic Defense, his eyes falling on a series of stark, black-inked diagrams illustrating shifting weight distributions, stance angles, and the precise legal boundaries of a traditional dueling strip.
"Over the weekend," Richard continued, walking down the center aisle, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, "the castle experienced what many of you are calling a triumph of first-year ingenuity. A mountain troll was neutralized. The gossip in the corridors suggests that raw talent and heroic instincts saved the day."
He stopped right beside Ron's desk. His nephew straightened his posture, his fingers tightening around his taped ash wand.
"Let us correct the record," Richard said coldly, pointing a long finger at the open page. "What occurred on the second floor was a masterclass in unpolished execution and structural fortune. Ron, when you attempted to stall the predator, your Flipendo charm missed the target by a margin of three feet."
A few Slytherins in the back snickered, but Richard's gaze snapped toward them, instantly silencing the room.
"You hit a water pipe," Richard continued, looking back down at Ron. "The resulting acoustic commotion was entirely accidental, yet it served to distract the beast. Had the pipe been reinforced iron rather than ancient brass, the spell would have ricocheted into your own ribs. Mr. Potter, look at the diagram at the bottom of page seventy-four. The duelling stance requires your rear foot to anchor firmly into the earth to bear the feedback of a heavy hex. Your anchoring charm caught the creature's heel only because the creature stumbled; your actual footwork was a full half-second behind its stride. In a true combat scenario, that half-second is the difference between a minor disruption and having your sternum crushed by a gnarled club."
Harry swallowed hard, staring down at the ink-drawn boots in his textbook, nodding slowly. He didn't feel insulted; he felt the cold, analytical truth of the lecture pinning him to his seat.
"And Miss Granger," Richard said, his eyes shifting to the girl, whose quill was already poised over her parchment. "Your transfiguration of a moving, high-velocity timber into half a ton of lopsided iron was mathematically sound, but look at the trajectory arcs outlined on page seventy-five. Your physical balance failed completely. You slipped on the wet flagstones because your weight distribution did not shift with your stance. You survived because the environment was forgiving. The next time you face a predator, the terrain will not be made of smooth castle floors and predictable plumbing."
He walked back to the front of the room, turning to face them. His expression was a fortress of absolute detachment as he tapped his knuckles against the podium.
"Luck is a finite resource. Today, we conclude our formal review of dueling theories. On Wednesday, we transition to live application. You will learn to move your feet before you move your wands."
Richard glanced toward the high window, where the pale winter sun was just starting to crest the mountains.
"Class dismissed. For your practical session on Wednesday, you will bypass Room 3B entirely and meet me on the training lawn. Dress for the elements."
The announcement hung in the air for a single, quiet second before the entire room erupted. A wave of frantic, excited whispering swept across the desks. Neville leaned over the back of his chair, his eyes wide, while Seamus and Dean instantly started gesturing wildly with their hands.
"The lawn!" Seamus hissed loudly as they packed away their books. "That's where Fred and George said the big canvas pavilion was! The one with the Red Cap simulation!"
"Do you think he's setting up the acoustic barriers for us?" Dean whispered back, his face alight with excitement. "Blimey, I didn't think we'd get a crack at the actual simulation until second year!"
Even Hermione looked uncharacteristically thrilled, her eyes darting to her notebook as if already calculating the structural boundaries of a training pavilion. "If it's the full-scale simulation, we'll finally get to experience the weight-shifting drills firsthand."
"Yeah, and maybe this time my wand won't smoke like a bad chimney," Ron muttered, though a grin was breaking across his face. He shot an excited look at Harry. "Live application. This is going to be brilliant."
Harry smiled and nodded, but as the rest of the class began gathering their bags and scrambling out the door to catch their next lesson, Richard's sharp voice cut through the noise.
"Ron. Longbottom. Remain behind."
Ron froze, his shoulders dropping as he shot a panicked look at Harry and Hermione. They gave him sympathetic, lingering glances before moving out into the corridor, leaving the two boys standing alone before the podium.
Richard waited until the heavy door clicked fully shut, ensuring absolute privacy. He stepped down from the dais, his dark eyes fixing directly on Ron's right hand, which was instinctively trying to hide his fractured, tape-bound ash wand behind his robes.
"Draw it, Ron," Richard said quietly.
Ron swallowed hard, pulling the wand out. In the harsh morning light, the peeling Sellotape looked incredibly pathetic, and a faint smell of old sulfur still clung to the cracked wood from the previous week's spellwork.
"Ash," Richard murmured, stepping closer. His long fingers reached out, tracing the fracture without actually touching the wood. "A stubborn timber. It bonds strictly to its initial master. When forced to pass down through a family, it loses its fidelity, and when fractured... it doesn't just fail you, Ron. It fights you. Every time you attempt a core-push, the magic bleeds through the cracks, casting the feedback directly into your wrist. It is a miracle you haven't blown off your own fingers."
"It was Charlie's," Ron muttered, his face flushing a bright, defensive crimson. "We... we couldn't afford a new one this year. It works well enough if I don't force it."
"It does not work at all," Richard corrected flatly. "A duelist without a proper focus is merely a target. I intend to rectify this. Before the term intensifies, I am prepared to take you to Diagon Alley to purchase a wand that matches your own core frequency."
Ron's jaw dropped, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief. "You—you'd buy me a new wand? A real one? From Ollivanders?"
"I am your uncle, Ron. I will not have a Prewitt descendant wading into a conflict half-armed," Richard said, his voice level but firm. "However, the logistics are not simple. The security protocols at Hogwarts are rigid. Even as a faculty member, I cannot legally remove a first-year student from the grounds without explicit parental consent. I will be writing to your mother tonight to request her permission."
The sudden burst of excitement in Ron's chest instantly withered. His shoulders slumped. "Mum? Oh, blimey... she'll never say yes. She'll think it's charity. Or she'll get furious that I complained to you about it, even though I didn't! She's really proud, Uncle Richard. If you write to her about money or wands, she'll just say Charlie's old one is perfectly fine for a first-year."
"Leave your mother's pride to me," Richard said, a microscopic, knowing smirk touching his lips. "Molly is formidable, but she understands the cost of a bad anchor. I will frame the request in a language she cannot refuse. Wait near the door."
Ron blinked, a sudden wave of immense relief washing over him. "Right. Thanks, Uncle Richard. Seriously." He scrambled toward the back of the room, his posture lighter than it had been in months.
Richard turned his gaze to Neville.
The chubby boy was standing a few feet from the podium, trembling slightly, clutching his own wand so tightly his knuckles were white. He looked terrified, his eyes darting to the floorboards as if expecting a harsh lecture on his sub-par academic notes.
"Professor?" Neville whispered, his voice cracking.
"Tell me about your wand, Neville," Richard said, his tone softening by a fraction, though it remained firmly grounded.
Neville blinked, looking down at the heavy, slightly scuffed wood in his hand. "It... it was my dad's, sir. Frank's. My Gran gave it to me when I came to Hogwarts. She said I had to live up to him."
Richard stared at the wand, a profound, heavy silence settling over the empty classroom. For a fleeting second, the cold detachment in his dark eyes shattered, replaced by the ghost of an old, buried grief. He looked toward the high window, where the frost clung to the glass.
"I knew your father, Neville," Richard said softly. "And your mother, Alice. They were in their final year when I was starting here at Hogwarts and then later established themselves as Aurors in the war. Frank was already a veteran in the field, a man who possessed a stance like an iron wall. In the early days of the war, before the shadow completely choked the Ministry, there were no sturdier defenders in Britain."
Neville's head snapped up, his round face alight with a sudden, desperate hunger for words. Nobody ever talked about his parents like this—not his Gran, who only talked about their duty, and certainly not the family friends who only spoke in hushed, pitiful whispers.
"The Prewetts and the Longbottoms have shared a long, bloody ledger of friendship," Richard continued, his voice dropping into a low, resonant cadence. "Our families have been friends for generations. When the war turned into a slaughter, and the dark forces began hunting down the members of the Order, trust became the rarest commodity in Britain. My twin brothers, Fabian and Gideon... they were closer in age to your parents, and when the end was closing in on them, they didn't hide in Ministry safehouses. They went to the Longbottoms."
Neville swallowed hard, a sudden lump forming in his throat. "They did?"
"They did," Richard murmured, his hand resting on the pommel of his secondary wand. "Frank and Alice risked everything to shield them. They fought side-by-side after madness came for them after the fall of the Dark Lord . The tragic fate that later befell your parents at the hands of the Lestranges... it was the same madness that took my brothers. A systematic dismantling of the families who refused to bend."
He looked back down at Neville, his eyes locking onto the boy's trembling frame with an intense, unyielding weight.
"Your grandmother gives you his wand because she wishes to see his ghost walk these corridors. But a wand is not a monument, Neville. It is a weapon. Frank's wand bonded with a man who fought with absolute, aggressive certainty. It will always resist a boy who hesitates."
Neville looked down at the wood, his chest heaving. "Should... should I get a new one too?"
"No," Richard said firmly. "Unlike Weasley's ash, your father's wand is intact. It does not fight you out of malice; it tests you. It is waiting to see if the blood in your veins matches the name on your registry. You do not need a new focus, Neville. You need to stop apologizing for occupying space on the battlefield."
He extended a hand, adjusting Neville's shoulder, forcing him to square his torso toward the doorway.
"On Wednesday, on the training lawn, I expect your stance to be wider. Your anchor to be deeper. Do not let your grandmother's expectations turn your father's memory into a shackle. You are a Longbottom. Stand like one."
Neville's jaw set, a sudden, unfamiliar spark of fierce determination cutting through his usual anxiety. He took a deep breath, his posture instantly straightening. "Yes, Professor."
"Dismissed. Both of you."
As Neville and Ron hurried out into the corridor to catch up with their classmates—Neville's steps noticeably heavier, more deliberate than before—Richard Prewett remained behind his podium. He reached into his inner pocket, his fingers brushing against the cold, seamless lead cylinder that held the Resurrection Stone.
The dead were everywhere in this country, whispering from the soil, clinging to the wands of their children, waiting for a reckoning. He pulled a fresh piece of parchment toward him, dipped his quill into the ink, and began to write.
Dear Molly...