It was a familiar ceiling.
That was Neville's first thought upon opening his eyes.
The curtained ceiling of the hospital wing was so familiar it was almost friendly by now.
And just as always, he couldn't remember why he was here.
As he blinked, trying to recall what sort of accident he'd had this time, a voice came from his side.
"Ah, Neville. You're awake?"
He forced his stiff neck to turn and see who had spoken.
"Har… ry?"
Why was Harry watching over his sickbed?
He stared blankly for a moment before his mind snapped back into focus.
"Ah, ah, ah! Harry! What happened? What about Lestrange?!"
"Calm down, Neville. It's all over."
Neville was finally able to relax after hearing Harry's explanation.
Bellatrix had fired the Killing Curse at him, but thanks to Aisen's timely help, he had dodged it and fainted.
And Bellatrix, he was told, had escaped.
Harry spoke in a more subdued voice than usual.
"Neville, I'm sorry. I have no excuse for putting you in such a dangerous situation."
*If things had gone wrong, you would have been hit by the Killing Curse and died.*
Neville's eyes went wide as he looked at Harry, who looked almost depressed as he apologized. He shook his head firmly.
"What are you talking about, Harry? I'm grateful to you."
"Grateful?"
"Yes, of course! If it weren't for you, how would I have ever been able to stand up to Lestrange!"
To be honest, the fact that he had almost died didn't quite register.
To Neville, who was only a thirteen-year-old boy, death was a distant concept, something he couldn't quite grasp.
Even hearing that he had nearly been hit by the Killing Curse felt unreal.
On the other hand, the experience he had gained yesterday was tangible.
Even as he spoke to Harry, Neville clenched and unclenched his fists, goosebumps rising on his skin.
A phantom sensation lingered in his hands. The feeling of relentlessly firing Stunning Spells at none other than the most wicked of witches, Bellatrix Lestrange.
At least in that moment, no matter what anyone said, Neville had been a true wizard.
Neville could still vividly recall Bellatrix's face.
He remembered how her expression had shifted from disdain to annoyance, and from annoyance to irritation.
He regretted not being able to push that expression past irritation to anger, and from anger to fear, but Neville was now certain.
One day, he would surely reach that level.
Neville recalled what Harry had told him. That what he lacked wasn't talent, but confidence.
Now, he understood completely what Harry had meant.
Neville wasn't a talentless dunce, the shame of the Longbottoms. He was a fine wizard who had stood proudly against Bellatrix Lestrange.
Neville looked at Harry, who was still watching him with unfocused eyes, and thought.
How could he feel anything but gratitude toward Harry, who had given him such an experience?
Neville's eyes, no longer their usual cloudy gaze, but sharp with a resolve that would rival anyone's, fixed on Harry as he bowed his head deeply.
It wasn't just a nod of the head, but a full bow from the waist.
Harry, who had been sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed, spoke in a fluster.
"Neville, calm down. You're still a patient…"
"Master, thank you."
"…What?"
"Harry, if you hadn't taught me and taken me to that forest, I'd still be a coward. Even though it was only for a day, yesterday will be a day that changes my life. Thank you so much. You truly are my master."
Then, in a way that was so typically Neville, he gave his usual goofy grin and added awkwardly, "…Is it okay if I call you Master? Or is a disciple like me not good enough for you?"
"N-no! Of course not."
Neville grinned as Harry waved his hands in denial.
Looking at Neville, Harry eventually returned the smile.
Neville grinned and said,
"It's a bit of a shame, though."
"What is?"
"If I could, I would have loved to land a solid punch right on Bellatrix's face. Hard enough to smash her nose! I should have beaten her up physically, not with magic!"
Harry gave a dubious reply to this new side of Neville, so different from his usual timid self.
"…Neville. Are you sure you're a pure-blood wizard?"
Neville shrugged.
"Well, who knows. To be honest, even though I fought Lestrange by slinging spells, I feel like there has to be a better way to fight than just using incantations."
Just as he said, Neville had not only gained confidence from the battle but had also sensed his own limitations. This was a judgment he could make only because he had established a sense of self-worth and could now look at himself honestly.
If he hadn't overcome his complex, he wouldn't have even been able to recognize his limits, let alone do anything but berate himself for his incompetence.
Magic was largely a battle of wits, where predicting and countering the opponent's next spell was crucial.
But in the heat of battle, Neville's mind had gone blank, and he had done nothing but fire one Stunning Spell after another.
If he had fought differently, he might have been able to carve not just irritation, but true anger onto Bellatrix's face. That regret lingered with him.
"Good heavens, Neville. What do you mean, a wizard not using spells? What are you going to do, swing a sword around?"
It was because of this that Neville seriously tilted his head at Harry's joke, which was meant to be absurd.
"Swordsmanship, huh? Maybe I'll give it a try."
It was the moment The Plant Swordmaster, Neville Longbottom, awakened.
***
On the way back from visiting Neville.
Harry walked slowly, and realizing the corridor was empty, he leaned his back against the wall and let out a sigh.
"Haaah…"
Learning from failure is one of a student's privileges. And yet, in the truest sense, Harry had rarely ever failed.
He had made plenty of mistakes while learning magic. But the truly important mistakes in life rarely come from academics.
Harry was struck anew by how blessed his circumstances were. And also, by the fact that he had been like a frog in a well.
Although Neville had expressed immense gratitude instead of resentment, Harry couldn't fully accept it.
Being already mature for his age, Harry saw right through the reason for Neville's gratitude.
*It's probably because he doesn't properly understand death.*
Though it had been dangerous, in the end, Neville had returned without a single scratch, apart from fainting when he fell.
Of course he wouldn't know the fear of death drawing near. He probably didn't even feel a sense of reality when he heard that Bellatrix had fired Avada Kedavra at him.
So all that remained for Neville was the boost in self-esteem from having stood up to Bellatrix. It was only natural for him to be grateful to Harry, having not felt the true danger.
But from Harry's perspective, it was different.
Harry could already see Thestrals. In other words, he already understood the meaning and weight of death.
From Harry's broader perspective, what happened was clearly his fault. He had almost made an irreversible mistake.
The thought kept coming back to him that if Neville had also understood death, he would have surely blamed Harry for creating the danger.
This first great mistake of his life remained in a corner of Harry's heart, tightening its grip on his chest.
As he stood with his eyes closed, sighing, the sound of running footsteps echoed from down the corridor. A large figure soon ran up to Harry and threw an arm around his shoulders.
"Harry! There you are!"
"Wood? What's up?"
It was none other than the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Oliver Wood.
A broad smile spread across Wood's rugged face.
"Well, obviously! I'm here to pick up Gryffindor's pride and joy, our genius Seeker, Harry!"
"…Ah."
Right, it was Quidditch season.
Last year, the Quidditch season had fizzled out because of the Chamber of Secrets incident, so it was understandable that Harry hadn't immediately remembered.
Wood, a Quidditch fanatic recognized by all, young and old, beamed and exclaimed, "Come on, Harry! Let's go see if your senses have gotten rusty over the last year!"
His mind was already in a complicated state, and needing a distraction, Harry gave a small smile and nodded.
***
"Whoa, Harry! You're amazing!"
"Good heavens, at this rate he'll break every record there is!"
"This year's Quidditch Cup is in the bag!"
The Gryffindor Quidditch team was gathered in a huddle.
At its center stood Harry, holding his custom-made Firebolt with a dignified air.
Everyone stared in awe at the majesty of the fastest broom in existence.
The Weasley twins, in particular, had a huge reaction.
"Whoa, is this a Firebolt?"
"Harry, let us have a go!"
"Let us ride it!"
"Just once is all we need!"
"Well, since there are two of us, technically twice!"
The Weasley family had received a hefty bonus last year from the raid that uncovered a large number of illegal magical items from the Malfoys, but they still couldn't afford to replace both the twins' expensive brooms.
The two had never complained about crisscrossing the pitch on their Cleansweeps, but it seemed even for them, a Firebolt was a different story.
In the practice match that followed, Harry was in a league of his own.
"Wow, Harry! Go a little easy on them! The Slytherins are going to run home crying to their mothers!"
"Isn't he faster than the Snitch? We need a rule change, urgently!"
Straight-line dives, spiraling climbs, vertical drops.
The synergy between Harry, who was already a Quidditch prodigy, and the Firebolt, the best broom in existence, was immense. The conviction that he wouldn't be outmatched even by a professional player spread through the Gryffindor team.
As Harry flew through the sky, the wind whipping past him and clearing his worries, he could feel his mood lifting.
And since Harry was, after all, still a thirteen-year-old boy, it was only natural that his self-esteem began to rise as the cheers for him and his Firebolt grew louder.
His face bright for the first time in a while, he soared high into the sky and looked down at the pitch. He could see that quite a few people had gathered in the stands to watch them, even though it was just a practice. And objectively speaking, at least half of them were probably there to see Harry on his Firebolt.
Having mastered the life of a celebrity, Harry had long since learned how to provide some fan service. He was about to swoop down to greet the spectators who had come to see him when a familiar face caught his eye.
*'Hm?'*
That distinctive red hair… it was Ron's sister. Her name was Ginny, right?
He remembered her greeting him at King's Cross Station sometimes, so Harry turned his broom in her direction.
***