Chapter 88: Practice, Message
Bang!
The spell’s light erupted, and Harry was thrown backward, crashing into the padded wall with a soft thud, letting out a low groan.
When he looked up, he was clutching his nose, blood trickling down in bright red drops.
“Oh, Harry!” Hermione gasped, rushing over. “Are you okay?”
“Hit my nose,” Harry mumbled through his fingers. He reached up to the shelf beside the wall, grabbed a vial of White Dew, and swiftly applied it to his nose. Then he wiped the blood from his face with a handkerchief.
Neville retrieved his wand, and Harry said, “Thanks, Neville.”
The wound healed quickly. Harry straightened up and asked, “I think my Shield Charm worked a bit this time—did you notice?”
“Definitely,” Wade nodded in approval. “But it was too weak. Didn’t do the job. Listen—Pro-tay-goh—say it with more conviction. This spell isn’t about finesse. It’s about repetition.”
“I get it.” Harry took a deep breath, flexed his wrist, and gripped his wand tighter.
“Shall we keep going?”
“Of course!” Harry declared, steadying himself and swinging his wand with force. “Shield Charm!”
Expelliarmus!
The spells collided again, and Harry’s wand flew from his hand once more.
“Has Harry been pushing himself too hard these past few days?” Michael asked Neville, who had just returned from picking up the wand. “He’s been getting hurt at least three times already today.”
“Yeah… maybe a little,” Neville admitted vaguely. “Should we keep practicing the Disarming Charm?”
“Listen, Neville—spells are endless. The only way to learn is to rest. You’re not being chased by the Dark Lord, so why are you pushing so hard?” Michael flopped down on the ground, lounging lazily. “You don’t need to kill yourself over this.”
Among the SSC Members, Harry had made the most progress—aside from Wade. He’d mastered both the Disarming Charm and the Shield Charm, though his invisible armor was still fragile, shattering at the slightest touch. Neville, on the other hand, had yet to successfully cast the Disarming Charm even once.
But Michael knew that Neville tried harder than anyone. Watching him fail, then rise again each time, made Michael feel the same ache in his chest as if it were his own.
Neville didn’t say anything. He simply stood in place, silent, eyes fixed on Michael.
Michael: ...
He bit back the urge to scratch every inch of his skin, as if ants were crawling under his clothes. He forced himself to stay put for two more minutes—then finally gave in to guilt and dragged himself up.
“Why am I even stuck here grinding on fifth- and sixth-year spells?” Michael muttered. “Tomorrow night, I’m out. I need a party. I need to play games. Even just sitting by the fireplace doing nothing—”
Neville just smiled.
At first, he’d believed Michael was serious. He’d worried the boy would stop showing up, abandoning their training sessions in the Umbrella Room. So he’d alternate between intense drills and breaks. But soon, Neville realized Michael was just talking—he showed up every day, right on time.
“When he doesn’t come,” Hermione said sharply at the end of practice, her tone as precise as a needle’s point, “you’ll be left without a partner. Or we’ll have to rotate, but someone’s always left out.” She paused. “He’s not really trying to skip. He just doesn’t want to hold back someone who’s actually trying.”
Neville blinked. A pang of guilt flickered in his chest. “But I still can’t get the Disarming Charm… I’m sorry. I’m letting him down.”
“Honestly?” Hermione frowned, puzzled. “It doesn’t make sense. Wade explained it clearly. Your wand movement and incantation are perfect. So why won’t it work?”
“Hermione,” Harry interrupted quickly.
Asking a struggling student, “How can you not get this so simple thing?” was the same as saying, “You’re impossibly stupid.”
Neville didn’t seem to notice. He stared at his wand, lost in thought.
…
Later that night, Wade stepped out of the bathroom, still drying his wet hair with a towel, when he saw a familiar house-elf standing in the middle of the room.
“Makki? Sit down.” Wade set the towel aside, poured a glass of water for the elf, and handed it over. He then poured one for himself and drained it in one gulp.
Makki didn’t sit. He leaned against the chair, cradling the hot water he’d brought himself, his large eyes glistening. His voice was soft, barely above a whisper:
“Wade Gray shouldn’t go to the Potion Classroom tomorrow afternoon. Someone else is using it.”
Wade froze. He paused, then placed his cup back down.
Earlier that day, during lunch, he’d casually mentioned to Padma—sitting near the Prewitts—that he’d be practicing the Shrinking Potion in the classroom the next day.
Now it seemed he didn’t even need to drop hints around Slytherin students.
Makki, though—after their last talk—had apparently learned some kind of Glitch Exploitation Technique. He swayed slightly, savoring the water, clearly happy, no longer afraid of punishment.
Wade smiled. “Any upperclassmen there?”
“No,” Makki said. “Just students like Wade Gray.”
“How many?” Wade asked. “Six? Seven? Six?”
“Six or seven…” Makki hesitated. “One person might not come.”
“Someone who isn’t one of them?” Wade pressed.
Makki shook his head. “They think she’s part of the group. But she’s not.”
“I see.” Wade pulled out a small Book of Friends and handed it to Makki. “You know how to use this, right? If you’re going to be inconvenienced tomorrow, please let me know, okay?”
“Of course,” Makki beamed, bowing deeply. “Makki will help Wade Gray. Makki is happy to help.”
With a soft pop, he vanished.
…
“Wade,” Michael whispered during History of Magic, glancing around. “You’ve noticed… Slytherin’s acting weird today?”
“How?” Wade asked, keeping his voice low.
“Just now, at the doorway—Zabini smiled at me. It was… creepy.” Michael rubbed his arms. “You think they’re planning something?”
Slytherin students had always had a poor reputation, and they stuck together like glue. Ever since Wade’s clash with Malfoy and the others in the corridor, the rest of the house had stopped acknowledging them altogether. Even in class, they sat apart—no mingling, no interaction.
But their conflict wasn’t at the level of house-wide hostility. Not like Gryffindor and Slytherin, where the grudges ran deep and never faded.
“Drop the ‘maybe’,” Wade said quietly. “They’re planning to ambush me.”
“An ambush… in the Potion Classroom?” Michael’s eyes widened. “That’s why you brought up potions yesterday. You’re waiting for them to set up—then you’ll report it to Professor Snape? Or…”
His eyes sparkled. He leaned in, whispering even lower:
“…you’re going to lure Professor Snape in.”
(End of Chapter)
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