After witnessing Neville's transformation into a paladin, Hermione yawned her way back to her dormitory to sleep. Ron, Seamus, and Dean, having washed up, also returned to their respective beds. That left only Neville and Harry still sitting beside the vivid red magical circle.
"First off, Neville, you need to understand something," Harry began, resting his hands on his knees as he carefully explained the basics of being a paladin. "As a paladin, you need a holy emblem to effectively cast divine magic or paladin spells. Normally, these emblems—whether made of wood, iron, or some other material—are crafted by the church." Neville focused intently, absorbing every word Harry shared.
"But," Harry continued, "since paladins can't always find a suitable temple—especially those raised in the wilderness who might never set foot in a city, let alone buy an emblem from a temple—there's a second way for a newly minted paladin to obtain one unique to them." He wagged his index finger for emphasis. "You can infuse an object with the power of your oath. Do it twice a day—once in the morning, once at night—for at least an hour each time. Keep going until that object fundamentally transforms into something brimming with your holy magic, an item that can connect with you anytime, anywhere. So, Neville, what do you plan to use as your holy emblem? Just so you know, it has to be worn visibly on your body or embedded in a weapon you carry."
"How about the Longbottom family crest made of copper?" Neville stood and reached into a small box on his bedside table, pulling out a brass badge. In his haste, he accidentally knocked out a neat stack of colorful bubblegum wrappers, which fluttered down onto the ketchup-drawn magical circle.
"Oh no!" Seeing the wrappers land on the still-wet ketchup, Neville quickly bent down, delicately picking them off with his thumb and forefinger. Harry initially thought Neville was worried about ruining the circle's integrity, but then he saw Neville pull a piece of paper from his pocket and carefully wipe the ketchup off the wrappers. Confusion crept in.
"Neville, are those bubblegum wrappers important to you?" Harry asked.
"Yeah," Neville replied softly. After a few seconds, he added, "They're gifts from my mum."
Harry glanced at the wrappers—clearly still fairly new—and his mind churned. Judging by their colors, they couldn't be more than a year or two old. What kind of mother gives her son bubblegum wrappers as a gift?
Next, Harry began explaining how a vengeance paladin should awaken and harness their inner power, along with the usage and effects of first-circle spells available to paladins. As for second- to fifth-circle spells, well, Harry's savings back then hadn't stretched far enough to buy those advanced spellbooks from the library.
Finally, as the clock ticked past midnight, Harry finished his crash course for Neville. He headed to the bathroom for a quick wash before bed when Neville suddenly spoke up.
"Harry, that… holy healing you mentioned—can it really cure any illness?"
"Of course it can," Harry nodded, though he added, "Using holy healing for illnesses consumes more energy than just mending wounds. The more complex the disease, the more divine energy it takes. With your current level as a fresh paladin, you could probably only handle something like a cold."
"Then how do I increase my divine energy?"
"Simple," Harry replied. "Meditation, combat, healing—any act that draws on your oath's power will boost your divine energy."
The next morning, sprawled on the dewy grass and panting, Ron, Seamus, and Dean stared wide-eyed. Neville—who'd always seemed so timid—wielded a longsword forged from earth, charging at Harry again and again. Each time Harry knocked him down, Neville rose in a flash of light, undeterred, rushing forward once more.
"What's gotten into Neville?" Ron muttered, watching the resolute glint in Neville's eyes as he swung his sword in one hand and brandished his wand in the other. "He's just become some kind of paladin, hasn't he? Why the huge change?"
"No idea," Seamus wheezed beside Ron, shaking his head.
On the other side of the field, Hermione—equally exhausted and sipping water from a cup—was just as stunned by Neville's transformation.
Harry dodged a swing from Neville's sword, then flicked it out of his hand with a staff. A quick jab to the backs of Neville's knees sent him tumbling to the grass. As Neville started to spring up for another round, Harry raised a hand to stop him. "Enough, Neville. You've fought plenty this morning. Pushing further will only hurt your body. It won't help your strength grow—it'll just hinder your use of the oath's power."
Neville immediately settled down.
Harry let out a long breath, tossing aside the mud-crafted staff. He surveyed the battered field—pockmarked with craters, scorched bald on one side, frozen solid on the other—and scratched his head ruefully. They'd clearly pushed beyond what a simple Reparo could fix.
Maybe it was time to find a sturdier training ground, Harry mused. But where could they find a place perfectly suited to their needs? Somewhere that could conjure up whatever they wanted… wait!
A sudden memory sparked—the mysterious room on the eighth floor that shifted to meet its user's desires.
"That's it! How could I forget that room on the eighth floor?" After a rough patch job on the lawn, Harry waved the weary group of five toward the castle, the rising sun at their backs.
Over the next few days, Harry fell into a simple routine: sparring with Hermione and Neville at dawn, attending classes during the day, studying the Patronus Charm with Professor Snape in the evenings, and occasionally sneaking off to play with the baby dragon. This rhythm held until the fifth day of term at noon, when Hedwig swooped in with a letter from Sirius, flapping her wings as she landed before him.
Harry stroked the cooing Hedwig, who hopped over for a nuzzle, and opened the envelope.
Dear Harry,
I've heard about the Malfoy family's accusations against Hagrid and Buckbeak. It's clearly a vendetta against Hagrid and Dumbledore. I won't stand for this injustice—especially when it involves my friends and those I care about.
Forever in your corner,
Sirius Black
P.S. I've also reached out to Mr. Newt Scamander for you. I think he could offer more help with Buckbeak's situation.
Folding the letter, Harry gleaned that Sirius had already secured the best lawyer for Hagrid. As for Lucius Malfoy's recent Daily Prophet tirade—claiming Hagrid and his "monstrous pet" had gravely harmed his son—Sirius had countered with his own article detailing the full story. Legal and public opinion were covered, leaving Hagrid himself as their only remaining concern.
Though Hagrid's spirits had lifted after their encouragement two days ago, word from other students suggested he was still off his game. He was teaching again, but the vigor of his first lesson was gone. No longer did he introduce powerful creatures like hippogriffs; instead, he stuck to harmless critters like puffapods, bowtruckles, and billywigs. Oddly, this won him surprising favor among students—especially the girls.
The next day, Harry didn't lead Hermione and the others outside the castle. Instead, he stopped them on the eighth floor, opposite a tapestry of a troll clubbing Barnabas the Barmy. He paced back and forth before a blank stretch of wall.
"Harry, why'd you bring us here? Aren't we training outside?" Ron glanced around the empty corridor. "Wait—don't tell me we're resting today?!"
Ron's final word came out as a yelp of shock, mirrored by the stunned faces of Neville, Seamus, Dean, and Hermione.
A simple wooden door had appeared before them. Harry pushed it open and stepped inside.
Noticing no one followed, he turned back with a grin and waved. "What are you waiting for? Come on in!"
"Harry, what is this…?" Hermione trailed off, stepping through and gaping at a room unmentioned in Hogwarts: A History.
They stood in a vast chamber, spacious enough for dozens of wizards to practice magic and combat simultaneously. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft, bright glow that banished every shadow, ensuring perfect visibility. The floor—wooden, magically reinforced—was firm yet springy, built to withstand intense magical impacts. It was divided into distinct combat zones, each outlined in different colors to keep trainees from overlapping.
At the center lay a mock battle arena, customizable with obstacles and traps to mimic real combat. A transparent shield encased it, absorbing and diffusing magical energy for safety. Against the far wall stood rows of bookshelves, stocked with texts arranged from beginner to advanced. To their left, a massive mirror reflected their movements for self-correction, beside an equipment area brimming with gear—protective cloaks, anti-magic bracers, longswords, warhammers, you name it. Beyond that, a cozy rest area offered cushioned chairs, low tables, and even wizard chess sets for downtime. On their right, a line of sleek training dummies stood ready, more intricate than anything sold in Diagon Alley.
"I stumbled across this room in my first year," Harry said, spreading his arms to the group. "It changes to fit whatever you need. And starting now, this is our new training ground!"
"Harry, this is bloody brilliant!" Ron, Seamus, and Dean flopped onto the chairs, groaning in delight at the plush fabric.
Neville wandered to the equipment rack, testing a longsword's weight with a few swings. Hermione, meanwhile, had already darted to the bookshelves, eyes gleaming.
And so, in the Room of Requirement, their next round of training began.
An hour later, after a rushed breakfast, Neville—bored and restless—dived back into the Room of Requirement. He'd have missed second period's Charms class entirely if Harry hadn't remembered to fetch him. First period? Please—hardly anyone bothered with Lockhart's Defense Against the Dark Arts anymore.
That evening, Harry knocked on Professor Snape's office door as promised.
After five days of practice, Harry could summon a misty Patronus against a boggart-turned-dementor, but a fully corporeal one remained out of reach.
"What? You want to see my Patronus?" Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously at Harry's request.
"Yes, Professor," Harry replied. "I want to understand the gap between what I'm summoning and a true Patronus."
"Not because of some rumor you've heard?" Snape stared into Harry's eyes, as if probing for hidden intent.
"What rumor, Professor?"
"Nothing," Snape said curtly. Meeting those eyes—so like Lily's—he refrained from Legilimency.
"Expecto Patronum!" With Snape's incantation, a silver doe burst from his wand, its glowing form leaping gracefully through the air.
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