The night was very dark; the corridor lay hushed.
Neville was on his way from the third-floor Hope Nook back to Gryffindor Tower. He was usually afraid of these halls, but the wand at his hip lent him a little courage.
"Neville."
A figure seemed to have been waiting there a long while.
"Justin."
Neville jolted, then relaxed when he saw who it was.
"Can we talk? About… Professor Quirrell," Justin asked gently.
At the name, Neville swallowed before he dared to listen on.
"The wizarding world has never really been safe, has it? The First Wizarding War, the Second— even Important Modern Magical Events of the Twentieth Century calls them carnage. You… probably understand that better than I do."
Justin paused. He watched with a flicker of worry as Neville's eyes shifted from fear to a kind of sorrow. The boy's pudgy hands had closed on the hem of his robe without him noticing.
The wars were slaughter. Take the Battle of Hogwarts—fewer than four hundred fought, and over fifty died. A death rate above twelve and a half percent; a meat-grinder by any measure.
"Professor Dumbledore knows about Professor Quirrell, Neville," Justin went on, pausing again to let wide eyes process it.
"Of course the Headmaster sees farther than we do. But danger doesn't just vanish because he sees it.
"We need strength. We need to stand together. I need you to understand—if danger truly comes, it's us leaning on each other, like when we faced the troll—"
His voice, steady and sincere, carried a quiet, persuasive force. For an instant something inside Neville shifted.
In that small, dim corridor, he felt part of himself changing.
A sense of responsibility settled on his shoulders—and he found he wanted to bear it.
"I— I can do it? What should I do?"
"Of course you can, Neville. What we do is simple: we train. If danger really comes, it should be us standing with Sean, not waiting for someone to save us."
With that, Justin slipped away. Before he left, he held Neville's gaze and was sure: his friend carried a power deep within.
They—the ones not prized by Headmaster Dumbledore, not worth Voldemort's notice—would be the ones to send the arrogant sprawling. He was sure of it.
Moonlight spilled in through the window.
Justin's face—usually warm and open—blurred at the pallid glow.
Yes. They had to stand together. Otherwise, what—wait for Sean to rescue them one by one?
In this castle, there was only one person both able to face danger and willing to throw himself in harm's way to keep them safe.
Justin sighed. He had to make the Nook understand: don't be dead weight on Sean—
In strength, and in spirit.
…
Since the Quirrell business, the children of the Hope Nook had been running hot; every day they trained hard.
Neville was making real strides in Defence. When he stammered questions at Sean, Sean had him specialise in Finite and the Stunning Spell (Stupefy).
He had to admit, on those two charms Neville learned faster than even Hermione.
By contrast with Neville's focus, Hermione's study was wide and ever wider; she knew many spells and kept adding to her repertoire. The only thing Justin found funny was that when she panicked—for instance, when they were jointly subduing one of Sean's snow-golems—she sometimes forgot what she knew. Justin would just take her proficiency chart and quietly recall the incantations for her.
Ron was presently the slowest in the Nook, but given he had chosen Transfiguration—such a vast field—his progress among first-years was already quick.
He could even turn a wooden table to stone now; Justin reckoned he was about at Sean's level back on the train.
"What do you mean, 'on the train'?" Ron asked, blankly.
"Before term, on the Hogwarts Express. Remember?" Justin said—and watched Ron flop bonelessly back in his chair.
All in all, everyone was improving. Looking over the ever-changing proficiency sheets, Justin nodded, satisfied.
As the only one who could keep a schedule to match Sean's, he was in truth working harder than anyone in the Nook. It was just that, limited by a talent not sharply specialised, his progress didn't look dramatic.
Still—"Sean, together?"
Afternoon sun slanted in; gloomy January had granted them another clear day.
"Mmh." Sean nodded.
"Finite, plus a Smokescreen Charm, and the Quieting Charm with the Whisper-muffle—those combos you talked about, I think I'm starting to get them…"
Justin was always eager to learn defensive and concealment magic.
Often he and Sean would talk a bit more deeply about the tricks of such spells; with help from a certain unnamed expert, his progress was never slow.
Just before he reached the Forest's edge, Sean handed him a slim notebook—the "Justin Edition," a personal plan keyed to Justin's own strengths and the spells he was learning.
"See you tonight."
Sean stepped beneath the trees; even from afar he could see Hagrid.
"See you," Justin called, waving.
He walked off with a light step. As he murmured incantations and flicked his wand, his footfalls and breath dwindled to a hush.
He was keen on defence and stealth for a simple reason: when facing the dangerous folk of the wizarding world, if you had powerful allies, your first jobs were to gather information, keep yourself alive, and withdraw in time.
He believed most students, even by graduation, would be no match for such threats.
Did that make them useless? Did those without blinding talent have wasted lives?
Magic is not only about meeting force with force—
Even Professor Flitwick can be toppled by Neville's Levitation Charm—
In this world, people slip in gutters all the time.
At the Forest's edge, a narrow path dwindled into the black tangle of trees.
Sean peered into the timber. A breeze ruffled his hair; Hagrid was already striding out to meet him.
"Grand ter see yeh, Sean! Over there—" Hagrid boomed, eyes bright. "See that great big hoofprint on the ground?"