The fire in the Gryffindor common room roared, logs snapping and spitting like small fireworks.
The place thrummed with excess hormones and noise loud enough to lift the ceiling.
"Don't touch that card! Fred, I saw you shove the Exploding Snap one up your sleeve!" Lee Jordan bellowed. The hairy tarantula in his hand panicked and scuttled down his collar, triggering a wave of shrieks and laughter from everyone nearby.
"It's called strategy, dear Lee." Fred Weasley tossed the still-smoking card back onto the table without a shred of guilt. "If you paid half as much attention to the match as you do to your hairy pet, you'd have won already."
In the corner Seamus Finnigan was attempting—once again—to turn water into rum. A muffled bang later, the goblet exploded into shards, spraying Dean Thomas's face with soot.
"Sorry! I swear that's what the book said!" Seamus waved his singed wand in frantic defense.
"Next time stay farther away, Seamus! My eyebrows only just grew back!" Dean wiped his face and flung his quill down in disgust.
A knot of third-year girls giggled over Lockhart's latest book; Oliver Wood hunched over the tactics board, spraying spit while explaining the famous "Porskoff Ploy" to a cluster of glassy-eyed first-years who clearly just wanted to go to bed.
The entire common room was a boiling stew—everyone shouting, everyone releasing pent-up energy in glorious, chaotic freedom. This was the disorderly, unrestrained joy that belonged uniquely to Gryffindor.
Then a rhythmic, heavy thump-thump-thump came from the portrait hole.
The sound of something large being forced to hop—and landing hard.
Two students fooling around near the entrance froze and turned curiously.
Neville Longbottom jumped into the room like a marionette with bound legs. Every bounce took every ounce of strength he had. His face was scarlet, streaked with sweat and tears.
"Oh look—Neville's practicing some new dance move?" a seventh-year called, whistling.
Laughter erupted. Someone even started clapping a beat.
But Neville wasn't laughing. On his final desperate hop he lost balance completely and crashed face-first into the carpet.
The laughter died instantly.
"Leg-Locker?" Percy Weasley strode over, shoving people aside. He raised his wand toward Neville's legs. "Finite Incantatem!"
Neville's legs sprang apart. He curled on the floor and finally burst into loud, wrenching sobs.
"It was Malfoy…" Neville hiccupped, words broken and choked with hurt. "Outside the library… him and Crabbe… they said I don't belong at Hogwarts… said I'm just a Squib who shames Gryffindor…"
Harry, seated in an armchair, let Quidditch Through the Ages slide from his fingers onto his lap.
Watching Neville's broken, humiliated figure, something inside Harry twisted into a painful knot.
Ten years on Privet Drive came rushing back.
For a moment the warm fire and scarlet-and-gold hangings faded. He was dragged back to the grey playground behind his primary school, or some dead-end alley.
He saw Dudley Dursley.
His pig-in-clothes cousin, flanked by his gang, cornering skinny little Harry.
Neville's sobs warped in Harry's ears, blending into the sickening sounds of memory: Dudley's fist thudding into his ribs; Piers pinning his arms while sniggering; the whole group howling with laughter when Harry's glasses shattered.
"Look, Big D—Potter's gonna cry again!"
"He's a freak! No one wants him!"
That helpless feeling of being ground into the dirt, guts burning with shame, the crushing injustice of being hurt for no reason at all…
Neville's trembling shoulders merged perfectly with the memory of that small Harry who could only curl up, arms over his head, praying the fists would stop.
Harry had thought coming to Hogwarts meant escape.
He was wrong.
Dudley was gone, but Dudleys were not. They simply wore Slytherin robes now, slicked their hair with oil, and traded clumsy punches for crueler Dark magic.
His eyes searched instinctively for the one voice that would know which rulebook paragraph applied, or which professor to fetch for the "correct" solution.
That rational, always-right, sometimes-annoyingly-perfect voice.
But Hermione Granger wasn't here.
No bushy-haired know-it-all to leap up reciting regulations and then instantly propose three solutions.
She'd been obsessed with the library lately. Ever since that strange late-night return she carried around a dangerous-looking book, scribbling furiously, deaf even to Ron and Harry's loud weekend tactics discussions.
If Hermione were here, what would she do? Fetch McGonagall? Take Neville to the hospital wing?
But looking at Neville now, Harry felt—for the first time—completely powerless.
The anchor was missing. The ship was drifting. All it could do was crash toward the rocks.
A raw, jagged emotion tore through his chest. He looked at Neville's tear-streaked face, felt the scar on his forehead throb, pictured Malfoy's pale, sneering features.
He didn't know what the right thing was anymore. He only felt fury—and a bewildered helplessness at being swept up in the chaos.
"Malfoy again?" Ron surged up from the chessboard, face blazing. "That 'Daddy's Boy' thinks only Slytherins count as real wizards? Last week he was mocking my old robes in the corridor!"
"That's too far!" Dean Thomas stood too, still smudged with soot. "Neville didn't even do anything!"
"They've always done this! They get away with it because Snape babies them!"
A fifth-year slammed his butterbeer mug down so hard the oak table boomed. Everyone jumped.
"We're Gryffindor! Not punching bags!"
Harry felt the room's mood shift. The earlier carefree racket transformed into something sharp and predatory.
His own tangled uncertainty was drowned beneath a more primal surge.
Rage—bone-deep, ignited by seeing a friend humiliated.
Even as the alchemical Galleon in his pocket gave off a cold weight.
Hermione wasn't here. No one to supply the "correct" answer.
But protecting Neville—making Malfoy shut his mouth—that was answer enough.
Harry stood up from the armchair.
Strange—his movement wasn't large. No wand-waving, no shouting. Yet the instant he rose, he cut through the hot, murky air of the common room like a blade.
Quidditch Through the Ages slid down his robes and hit the floor with a heavy thud.
In the roaring anger and cursing, the sound should have been lost.
Instead it struck every nerve in the room.
Ron's next swear died in his throat; he stared at his best friend in shock. Fred and George—already reaching for more fireworks—froze mid-motion and exchanged a look, grins fading. Even the fifth-year who'd been pounding the table turned his head and went quiet.
The clamor receded like a tide going out, leaving only the crackle of the fire.
Firelight danced on Harry's round glasses, hiding his green eyes but reflecting twin flames of fierce scarlet-gold. He stood there—skinny, messy-haired—holding a silence more unnerving than any shout.
In that instant every ounce of anger, restlessness, and disorder found its outlet.
Or perhaps this was what it looked like when Gryffindor lived inside a lion's eyes.
He simply stood—and it felt like raising an invisible banner.
"Fred."
"Do you still have any Dungbombs?"
"Bring out your entire stock."
Fred blinked—then broke into a dazzling grin. He leaped onto the table, raised his wand and roared:
"You heard him, brothers! Harry's asking for Dungbombs! Who wants to give those snakes a proper Gryffindor welcome?"
"Dragon dung pellets! Fireworks! And the extra-nasty biting frisbees!"
"For Neville!" Harry raised his fist, adding the crucial line.
"FOR NEVILLE!"
"Blow Slytherin to kingdom come!!"
"Count me in!"
The common room detonated.
In that moment Harry didn't think about what Hermione would say, or how many points they'd lose.
He only wanted to see the smug look wiped off Malfoy's face and replaced with fear.
"Let's go!" Lee Jordan brandished the box of still-crawling tarantulas. "Time to serve them some genuine Gryffindor hospitality!"
"Old-fashioned methods, lads." The fifth-year grinned savagely, leading the charge toward the portrait hole. "If they won't play by rules, we'll teach them the rule of fists!"
Chaos at the portrait hole.
The Fat Lady didn't even have time to complain about being woken before she was shoved aside by a stampede of furious students—some still in pajamas, all clutching prank products.
Her usual lectures about decorum drowned beneath pounding footsteps.
"Gently! You're wrinkling my dress! You uncouth little—oh my goodness gracious."
Watching the long line of red-eyed, wild-haired children pour out—some still clutching joke-shop contraband—she snapped her mouth shut and shrank into the farthest corner of her frame.
Harry led the charge.
Once they left the warm Gryffindor tower the corridor's chill wind cooled his overheated brain a fraction—but he didn't stop.
Neville was half-carried by Ron and Dean, still sniffling and stumbling; first-years trailed at the back, half-terrified, half-thrilled; Fred and George wove through the crowd, tossing glowing fireworks between them.
No one cared about points anymore. No one cared about detentions.
Torchlight flickered, stretching their furious lion-shadows into claws and fangs across the walls.
They poured down the marble staircases.
The deeper they went, the colder and damper the air grew. Torch flames shifted from warm orange to sickly green.
This was snake territory now—walls weeping moisture that carried the dank smell of underground stone.
But the Gryffindors didn't slow.
Around the final bend lay a wet stone wall—
The entrance to the Slytherin common room.
And right in front of it came Draco Malfoy's unmistakable drawl:
"…I really wish I'd had a camera. Longbottom hopping like a frog—front-page Prophet material. Headline already written: 'Gryffindor's Atavistic Regression.'"
Crabbe and Goyle gave their signature throat-rending laughs.
"Hey! Malfoy!"
Fred Weasley leaped around the corner first, followed by a dark tide of angry Gryffindors.
Malfoy's laugh choked off. He stared at the mass of students emerging from the shadows like a pack of rogue trolls.
"Gryffindors?"
He took an instinctive step back—his spine hit the cold stone wall.
The impact jolted him awake.
This was his territory! The entrance to the Slytherin common room!
"You brainless idiots dare come here?"
Malfoy's already pale face flushed with sickly color—fear twisting into humiliated rage.
"You think numbers make a difference?"
He spun and rapped his wand sharply against the stone.
"Pure-blood!!"
The wall slid open, revealing the eerie green glow of the Slytherin common room beyond.
Malfoy shouted into the opening:
"Gryffindors at the door! Show these filthy lions what real wizards look like!!"
"What's invading?"
"Gryffindors? Have those stupid lions lost their minds?"
Boots and curses poured out of the gap.
Not just first-years.
Marcus Flint—the gorilla-like Quidditch captain—emerged first, flanked by Beaters; behind him older Slytherins crowded the entrance, faces dark.
Green robes quickly formed a solid wall in front of Malfoy.
Harry didn't retreat.
He stepped forward instead.
He raised the specially modified Dungbomb in his hand. Behind him dozens of wand-tips flared with dangerous light.
"So this is what you call backup? Good."
Harry stared straight into Malfoy's bloodless face.
"I was too far away earlier—didn't quite catch that. Malfoy—"
"Say it again. Right now. In front of all your friends."
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