Dumbledore's single sentence made every professor snap their heads toward Alice.
Neville was no longer getting one-on-one pointers. He was off to the side by himself, completely lost in a sword routine. The moves were clumsy, the stance was all wrong, but you could still tell: the kid was actually practicing swordplay.
Alice stood a few paces away, lips moving rapidly. This time even the lip-reading student couldn't make out a thing out.
Dumbledore flicked his wand, and suddenly her voice carried clearly to the staff balcony.
The professors exchanged glances. After a moment, Flitwick cleared his throat.
"I believe Miss Long is speaking Chinese. So… does anyone here happen to speak Chinese?"
A chorus of head-shakes. McGonagall was the only one who raised a hand halfway.
"Ask me again in a few months. The book Alice lent me is bilingual."
"Which is," Flitwick sighed, "no help at all right now."
Since no one understood a word, they gave up trying to translate and turned their full attention to Neville.
White vapor was rising steadily from his body, like steam off a kettle.
Standing beside Snape, Quirrell leaned in a little. "Professor Snape, do you really think sword training will help a wizard's magic?"
Snape's expression stayed grim. "Whether it helps or not is irrelevant to us. Our magical paths are already set, are they not?"
Quirrell rubbed his nose, a little sheepish. "Fair point."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Then why are you so interested, Professor?"
Quirrell gave an awkward laugh. "I have… a friend. Weak constitution, weak magic. I was wondering if sword training might do him some good."
Dumbledore, who had been watching the two of them the entire time, chimed in smoothly.
"As you can see, Quirrell, Alice's sword art requires hands-on instruction and testing. If your 'friend' is willing to come for a trial, I can grant him temporary entry to the grounds."
Quirrell jumped about a foot in the air, then did a very convincing impression of a flustered, harmless man.
"I—I'll ask him, Headmaster. Though I doubt he'll come. Very shy, you know."
Dumbledore just smiled serenely. Shy, hiding, or already inside the castle; he didn't particularly care. The point had been made.
He watched Quirrell's nervous fidgeting for a second longer, lips twitching upward. Message received.
…
Down on the lawn, Neville was still lost in the forms. Alice didn't interrupt him once.
That was the beauty of the Seventy-Two Styles of Mount Shu Swordsmanship: the first time someone with real sword affinity practiced it, the routine triggered a full cleansing of meridians and marrow.
The longer you could keep going on that very first attempt, the deeper the cleansing.
So Alice not only refused to stop him; she silently prayed he'd last as long as possible.
She'd quietly roped Harry, Ron, Draco, Theo, Pansy, and Millicent into crowd-control duty, making sure no one disturbed Neville's "ritual."
Draco had grumbled, of course, but one look from Alice shut him up fast.
Half an hour later, Neville's movements were visibly slowing. Alice felt a twinge of regret; he wasn't going to beat her personal record after all.
Finally, with one last shaky stance, Neville finished the set and collapsed to his knees.
A truly heroic stench immediately rolled off him in waves.
Pansy and Millicent, standing closest, got the full blast. They took one sniff, gave Neville identical looks of pure disgust, and bolted.
Neville froze, mortified.
Alice, who'd been through this herself, just wrinkled her nose and asked cheerfully, "So? Feel amazing?"
Neville nodded, even while turning green from his own smell. "I feel… light. Like I could fly without a broom. But Merlin, I reek."
"Of course you do," Alice said matter-of-factly, subtly shifting upwind. "First time running the Seventy-Two Styles forces every impurity out of your body. That stink is literally years of gunk getting evicted."
"It's embarrassing, but it's also proof you're getting stronger. Every master goes through the Stink Phase."
Neville looked down at his sweat-soaked, grime-streaked robes. "How long did I last? Did I pass your grandfather's test?"
"Thirty-five minutes," Alice said, grinning. "That's actually really good. Most people tap out before ten."
Neville broke into a huge, relieved smile. "So I'm not completely useless after all."
"Never were, Longbottom," Alice said warmly.
She paused, then added, "Though you might want to hit the showers before anyone within a mile keels over. Like, right now."
Neville's triumphant grin died instantly. His ears went scarlet.
Draco, who'd been keeping gawkers at bay, sidled over with a wicked smirk.
"Well, well, Fatbottom. Next time we duel me, I'm not holding back anymore. I used to go easy because your magic was pathetic."
He flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve. "Now that you're doing this whole 'magic-and-sword' nonsense, if you still lose, I'm never letting you live it down. No crying."
Neville."
Neville straightened, gripping his wand tighter, eyes blazing. "I won't lose to you again, Malfoy."
Draco snorted. "Start by losing the smell, Longbottom. I'm already winning in the hygiene department by a landslide."
He sauntered off, laughing.
Face still flaming, Neville gathered his books from Harry and Ron, muttered a quick goodbye to Alice, and fled toward the castle, probably to burn his robes and bathe in the lake if necessary.
Harry clapped him on the back as he passed. "Welcome to the club, mate. We'll save you some dessert."
Neville just groaned and kept running.