The corridor was pitch-black and dead quiet.
Neville was trudging back to Gryffindor Tower from the third-floor Hope Cottage. Normally he hated the hallways at night, but with his wand tucked in his belt, he felt just brave enough to keep going.
"Neville."
A shadow stepped out—it had clearly been waiting.
"Justin."
Neville jumped, then relaxed when he recognized the Hufflepuff.
"Can we talk? About… Professor Quirrell."
The na made Neville swallow hard, but he nodded.
"The wizarding world's never been safe, has it?" Justin said gently. "First Wizarding War, Second Wizarding War—even A History of Magic calls them brutal. You… you get it more than most."
He paused, watching Neville's eyes shift from fear to sothing sadder. Neville's chubby fists had already bunched up the hem of his robes.
Take the Battle of Hogwarts: fewer than four hundred fighters, over fifty dead. A straight-up 12.5% death rate. A at grinder.
"Dumbledore knows about Quirrell," Justin went on. "You get that, right?"
Neville's eyes went wide again. Justin gave him a second to process.
"Dumbledore sees farther than any of us, but danger doesn't just vanish. We need strength. We need to stick together. If sothing bad cos, we've got each other's backs—like with the troll."
His voice was steady, earnest, convincing. Sothing inside Neville wobbled.
In that dim little hallway, a piece of Neville shifted. A weight settled on his shoulders—and he wanted it there.
"I—I can do this?" he whispered.
"Of course you can," Justin said. "It's simple: we train. If trouble hits, we face it with Sean, not wait for soone to save us."
Justin left without another word. Before he turned the corner, he looked back—sure that his friend had power buried deep inside.
All the little people Dumbledore overlooked, the ones Voldemort never even noticed? They were going to trip up the arrogant ones soday. Justin was certain.
Moonlight spilled through the window. Justin's usually warm, open face looked ghostly in the pale glow.
Yeah, they had to stick together. Were they supposed to wait for Sean to save them one by one?
Only one person in this castle could face real danger head-on and still throw himself in front of them without hesitation.
Justin sighed. He had to make the kids in Hope Cottage understand: don't drag Sean down.
Skill-wise and ntally.
==
Ever since the Quirrell incident, the Hope Cottage crew had been on fire. Every day they pushed themselves.
Neville was killing it in Defense. When he stamred out a question to Sean, Sean told him to drill Arresto Montum and Stupefy. Turns out Neville picked those two up faster than Hermione.
Hermione, anwhile, was all over the place—she knew a ton of spells and kept adding more.
The funniest part? When she got flustered—like the ti they all ganged up to hex Sean's snowman—she'd blank on half her arsenal. Justin just grabbed her spell-progress chart and quietly checked boxes for her.
Ron was the slowest in the group, but he'd picked Transfiguration, which is basically an ocean of magic. Turning a wooden desk into stone? That put him roughly at Sean's level on the Hogwarts Express.
"Express level?" Ron asked, blinking.
"Pre-first-year Sean," Justin clarified. "Rember the train?"
Ron flopped into a chair and didn't move.
Overall, everyone was improving. Justin eyed the ever-growing proficiency charts and nodded, satisfied.
As the only one whose sleep schedule matched Sean's, Justin actually trained harder than anyone. His talent wasn't flashy, though, so progress looked slow.
Still—"Sean, spar?"
Afternoon sun cut through January's drizzle—rare blue sky.
"Yeah," Sean said.
"Arresto Montum, plus smoke spell, Disillusionnt, and Quietus—the combo you ntioned last ti. I think I've got the gist—"
Justin loved defensive and stealth spells. He and Sean spent hours dissecting tricks, and with help from a certain unnad "expert," Justin improved fast.
At the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Sean handed him a tiny notebook—customized, just for Justin's spell mastery.
Sean had basically copied his own notes and rewritten them as the "Justin Edition Spell Plan."
"See you tonight."
Sean vanished into the trees. Far off, Hagrid's silhouette lumbered closer.
"Tonight," Justin called, waving.
He jogged off the lawn, wand flicking—his footsteps went nearly silent under the Quietus charm.
Why the stealth focus? Simple. Against the real monsters out there, little wizards like them had three jobs when backup was around: gather intel, stay alive, get out fast.
Most of them wouldn't be able to fight Death Eaters straight-up until after graduation—if ever.
Only soone like Sean, destined for greatness, could steer the whole battle.
So were the rest of them useless? Was a lack of raw power a wasted life?
Magic wasn't just dueling head-on.
Even Professor Flitwick could get blasted off his feet by Neville's Wingardium Leviosa.
Tripping in the gutter happened all the ti in the wizarding world.
Edge of the Forbidden Forest
A narrow dirt path snaked into the black trees ahead of Sean.
A breeze ruffled his hair. Hagrid was already stomping over.
"Real glad yeh ca, Sean! Look over there—"
Hagrid's voice bood with excitent. "See that huge footprint in the mud?"
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