Reviews:

Greer123: Thanks. Yes, writing the fight scene was a lot of fun.

coldblue: Glad you like the concept. Incorporating lore is essential, I agree, and I'm glad you spotted some of the Harry/Neville parallels, Keep your eyes open for the Harry/Guts parallels as well. As for the behelit, I have plans for that.

Guest: Thank you, I'm glad you're enjoying it.

Notsae: Don't worry about the rating. It'll change to M soon. This is Berserk after all.

Guest: I haven't forgotten about that story, It's just taking time to write.

Disclaimer- Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling and Berserk is owned by Kentaro Miura. I own nothing.

One, two, three, and a swish of his wand.

Nothing.

Another attempt. One, two, three, and a swish of his wand.

Again, nothing.

Time to try yet again. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. Over and over Neville swished his wand with every attempt as he stared down into the goblet that held regular water. The transfiguration that he and the rest of the class were attempting to turn water into pumpkin juice. McGonagall wanted to start them off simple after the class had all managed to turn matchsticks into needles, and water transfiguration was the next step up.

Water was what McGonagall had referred to as a base liquid for them to work with since its properties made it viable to work with magically. She had properly demonstrated the spell and wand work at the beginning of class, and half the class had already succeeded after the third or fifth try. As usual, Neville had yet to get his water to even change color to an orange hue. It remained as crystal and clear as when McGonagall had first poured it into his goblet.

What was he doing wrong? He was saying the incantation the same as the rest of the class and following the wand movements, so why? He didn't even need to look over his shoulder to know that Malfoy was laughing with Crabbe and Goyle at his expense.

The only small comfort he derived from his multitude of failures was knowing that he hadn't made a complete fool of himself in front of the entire class. Seamus Finnegan had somehow caused a small combustion to occur, evaporating all of his water and covering his face in soot.

"Trouble, Mr. Longbottom?" The curt voice of Professor McGonagall spoke from over his shoulder.

"Just- trying to get a feel for it, professor," Neville explained as he went over the wand motion once more. McGonagall watched and waited to see if this trial would yield and other results. She pursued her lips in thought when nothing happened.

"Mr. Longbottom, what did Mr. Olivander say when you purchased your wand?" She inquired, eyeing his wand suspiciously.

Neville shook his head. "I didn't get mine from Olivander's," he truthfully replied. "My gran gave me my father's."

McGonagall nodded in understanding. "I thought it looked familiar. Stay behind after class, Mr. Longbottom."

"Oh, alright, professor," Neville gave a small nod himself. He gave the spell a few more tries, but those results fared about as well as all of his previous attempts, his mind wandering to what it was McGonagall wanted to speak with him about. Knowing his luck, he was likely to get removed from her class. Oh God, what would his gran say?!

"Neville! How could you let your parents down like that?! You were supposed to make them proud! Make them proud!"

He shuttered at the mental berating he had constructed for himself. For as long as he had known his gran, it was right up her alley to say something along those lines. As much as she did care for Neville, she did make it clear on more than one occasion that he wasn't living up to his full potential. It hurt even more that he knew that she was right.

The Hogwarts bell tolled its noise and one by one the class began to pack up their books, filing out to get to their next class. All except Neville of course.

"You wanted to speak with me, professor?" Neville asked as he tentatively walked up to McGonagall's desk.

"Yes." McGonagall waved her wand and a chair levitated over next to him. "Please have a seat for a moment." He did as was instructed. "You said this was your father's wand, correct?"

"Yes. That's right."

She held out her hand, and Neville handed it over for her inspection. "Oh yes. This is Frank's wand alright." She muttered an incantation and a green spark shot from the end. "You've been keeping it in good condition I hope."

"Oh yes," Neville quickly confirmed. "My gran would send me a howler if I didn't. I might be forgetful, but I would never neglect my wand."

"And a find wand it is," she handed it back to him. "But it's not suited for you, I'm afraid."

Neville grimaced as he looked down at the wand in his hands. He should have known that he wasn't worthy of his father's wand. His father was a brave man who didn't talk under the cruciatus curse, and he was just… Neville. "Am I going to have to drop your class?"

"Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Longbottom?" McGonagall asked sounding confused.

"Well, a wizard without a wand is practically a squib," explained Neville. "Squibs can't-do magic."

McGonagall shook her head, seemingly disappointed in his logic. "Mr. Longbottom, you would not have been accepted into Hogwarts if that were the case." She waited to see if he had anything to add to his previous statement. He didn't. "A wand is but a vessel for a wizard, Mr. Longbottom. Magic, is around you, inside of you. Your wand is just a tool for you to direct it, manipulate it. There have even been examples of wizards performing magic without a wand if their knowledge of the field is strong enough. Why Merlin himself even used a staff, but I don't believe he ever really had need of it."

"I… never knew that," Neville admitted as much. He looked at his wand with a much different light now. He knew that he wasn't like his father, but he would never have thought that they were that different to where he couldn't use his father's wand. Gran had always kept it safe, so he had little time to practice with it when he was a child.

"Considering you haven't stopped at Olivander's, I'm not too surprised," McGonagall stated. "There is a phrase he says to first-year students, it goes something along the lines of 'the wand chooses the wizard.'"

"The wand chooses the wizard?" Neville repeated.

"Indeed. As powerful a wand as your fathers is, it just isn't a fit for you."

"So, what do I do?" Neville inquired.

Pulling a piece of parchment from her desk drawer, McGonagall began to write. "I'll send an owl to your grandmother explaining the situation. With her permission, I'll escort you to Diagon Alley to acquire a new one."

"I don't know if my gran will like that," Neville confessed. "She was really set on me using my dad's wand."

"Well I'm also sure Augusta would like to see her grandson's magical performance reach its peak," McGonagall was quick to counter. "She'll just have to accept that you are Frank's son, not Frank himself." She grabbed an envelope and sealed it shut. "That will be all, Mr. Longbottom. I suggest you hurry to your next class."

"Yes, professor," Neville nodded, packing up the rest of his things and heading for the door.

"Oh, Mr. Longbottom!" McGonagall called. Neville stopped to look back. "Just so you know, you're father was a late bloomer when it came to magic. But when he came into his own, he was one of the best I ever taught."

"Where is this place exactly?" Harry asked as he rode his horse alongside Guts' through the scenic countryside of southwest Midland. All Guts had told him about their destination was that they were going to get a replacement for the sword that Harry broke. If Harry's suspicion about it being from magic was true, then his new sword would have to be of a better make.

"Not far now," Guts told him. His idea of far must be drastically different from Harry's, as they had been riding for close to four hours out from Windham. "This guy's a bit of a recluse, but he's the best at what he does."

"You know him then?" Harry asked, curious as to who it was.

Guts gave a half nod. "He's the one who made the sword I'm using now." Harry eyed the blade strapped to Guts' back. For as big as it was, it looked to have gotten a few chinks in it from his battle in the forest.

"And you think he can make a magic sword?" Harry further questioned.

"I didn't say that," Guts corrected, "I just said he's the best at what he does."

"Meaning a magic sword?"

"Shut up." It didn't sound as serious as it should have.

That was around the time they came upon a cabin near the wall of a cliff. Smoke drifted up from the chimney and the sound of metal hitting metal rang throughout the air. Guts hopped off of his horse and tied the reins around a low tree branch and Harry followed suit. "This is it," Guts said as he strode to the cabin. Guts gave two knocks on the door and Harry could hear the metal clanking decrease to some degree. In a few short seconds, the door opened.

Instead of looking up, Harry found himself looking down at the little girl who answered. She had fair skin and light brown hair. Her bluish green eyes reflected curiosity as she looked up at the two of them. If harry had to guess, he would say she was probably only about seven years old at most.

Guts met her gaze with his own. "Hey," he casually greeted.

Her face broke into a wide smile. "Papa!" She shouted into the cabin. "He's back! The sword guy is here!" She took a look at Harry. "And there's someone with glasses!"

A grunt was heard, followed by a gruff voice. "Alright, Erica. I'm coming." Standing behind the girl now known as Erica was, in Harry's opinion, the definition of a blacksmith. He had a long, grizzled gray beard and the hair on his head was long but thin. His skin was tanned from the heat of the forge, protected by the large smock he had on. While his hands were wrinkled like old leather, they looked as strong as fresh steel.

"Been some time," the smith said to Guts. "You haven't broken that sword I made for you, have you?"

"No, Godo," Guts told the smith, "you're swords fine."

"Then why'd you come?" Godo asked. "Not like you to just pay a visit because you feel like it."

Guts pointed a thumb at Harry. "He's here for a sword."

Godo turned his attention to Harry, looking at him as if to get a good judge of his character. "A sword you say?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Don't call me sir," Godo advised. "I ain't no knight." He ran a hand through his scraggly beard.

"He's looking for a custom sword," Guts continued. "Something special."

"Special?" Godo repeated, almost sounding amused. "Never liked that word. I can do unique, but special? A sword is a sword, no matter how big or small."

"I'm not hearing a 'no,'" Guts observed.

"Hold your horses, lad!" Godo put up his hands. "You haven't even told me the details about it yet. I can't work if I have nothing to go off of."

Guts urged Harry forward. "Tell him."

"Well, I was thinking about a sword that can handle heat," Harry said, unsure of how to phase it without sounding crazy.

"All swords have to get heated," Godo told him. "That's how we make 'em. Even a non-smith knows that."

"I mean after it's made," Harry said, defending his intelligence. "Like when I use it, it can handle heat."

"You make it sound like you want a magic sword," Godo sounded borderline amused. Harry didn't respond to that. And with his lack of response, Godo began to chuckle. "Har-har-har! Boy, let me show you something. Erica, go unlock the shed."

His daughter nodded. "Alright, papa." She grabbed a set of keys and skipped over to a large shed off to the side of the cabin. The three followed behind her. Erica twisted the key into the lock and pushed the door open. "Ta-da!"

Godo patted her on the head. "Good work, Erica." He led them in to a cornucopia of arms, armor, and a bunch of other scarps littered over work tables. Harry took notice of a custom repeating crossbow, what looked like cannonballs, and various other tinker toys. But Godo led them to the back of the shed were something was propped up against the wall, covered by a tarp.

"What's under there?" Harry asked.

"A story," Godo answered cryptically. "Before I lived out here, I was commissioned by the previous king of Midland to forge a sword like no other, a sword that could slay dragons. So for days, I worked away at the forge, I had to construct stirrups to lift in and out of the flames. By the time I had finished it, it was more a heap of iron to be called a sword. Much too massive and thick. It was so large the king could not wield it." Godo looked over at Guts. "I doubt even you could lift it, lad." Guts scoffed but didn't retort.

"So the king ordered that I close my forge and relocate," Godo continued. "And I did just that. I made him a sword that could slay dragons if dragons existed. But dragons and every other mythical creature vanished long, long ago. The only things the left behind were stories and legends like the ones you would hear from Enoch village about trolls and enchanted forests."

"What about your cave, papa?" Erica asked, putting a helmet over her head that was much too big for her.

"Aye, my cave too."

"Cave?" Harry asked, looking away from the tarp-covered sword.

"Elves used to live in these parts," Godo explained. "The cliff wall behind my cabin houses a cave that elves used to live in. Ore can be found there, but I can tell that's it's different. The elves, they may have left some of their magic behind before they left."

"Why are you telling us these stories, Godo?" Guts questioned. "We came for a sword, not a history lesson."

"Aye, and a sword you'll get," Godo confirmed. "If you're talking about a magic sword, I'll see about using some of the ore from my cave. I tell you that story because I want you to know. I've dealt with fools who didn't know the consequence of their request, I don't want you getting your hopes up when you discover that the sword you get is no different than any other sword in this shed." Godo cast a look at the tarp. "Any other sword."

"Thank you," Harry said. "Whatever your price is, I'll pay it." He reached for his coin pouch, but Godo raised a hand to stop him.

"My price, huh?" Godo thought it over. "Alright, your companion will come with me to the cave to mine that ore, and you… you can chop some wood for me."

"Cutting wood?" Harry asked.

"The seasons are changing," Godo stated. "Fall is here and soon enough it'll be winter. My back ain't what it once was. You, you're young. That's my price. I don't want me or my daughter freezing when the snow starts falling."

The next hour found Harry wiping sweat from his brow after bringing the ax down on yet another chunk of wood. Godo apparently had a pile of wood he wanted to be chopped behind his shed, but he said that after that was done, he wanted Harry to cut some of the trees around his settlement. He wasn't looking forward to it, but if it meant it was the price for te sword, he would have to pay it.

He put the split pieces of wood into a cart and pulled it up to the side of the cabin. As he did, he caught sight of a head peaking around the corner of the cabin at him. Turing his head to look, Erica emerged from her hiding place holding a bucket. "Hiya!" she greeted cheerily.

"Hi," Harry greeted back unsure of her reason for visiting.

She presented him with the bucket. "Here. You looked thirsty, so I got you some water." Harry accepted it and drank his fill of the cool liquid.

"Haaa," he sighed. "Thanks."

"No problem," she smiled warmly at him, a complete contrast to her father's serious face.

"So do you like living out here?" Harry asked the younger girl. "It must be pretty quiet most of the time."

"Uh-huh," she nodded vigorously. "I love living with papa, he's the best blacksmith ever! And one day I will be too." The mental image of a girl as small as Erica lifting a hammer twice her size brought a smile to Harry's face. "But it does get lonely out here. I think papa thinks so too."

"Really?" Harry was not too convinced of that. "He seems content enough."

"He likes when Guts comes to visit," Erica told him.

"He said that?" Harry asked. He knew Guts was not a very social person, and Godo didn't strike him as one either.

"Wellllll, he didn't say it," Erica emphasized. "But it gives him something to do. Papa is always thinking about what he can make next, and Guts always asks for bigger swords. Then he puts him to work like you're doing now. If he pays by staying to do work, that's extra company."

"Extra company," Harry parroted. He wasn't Godo, so he couldn't say for sure.

"Yup!" Erica said. "Maybe after you're done cutting wood for papa you can play with me?"

"Huh?"

"Yeah, I don't know any kids my age. You're still a kid right?"

Still a kid? He was only eleven, but he felt older than that. Maybe it was spending time with people who were older than him or having to adapt to life, but Harry couldn't recall a time he ever felt like a kid. Rickert was good company, but they didn't do childish things besides joke around. And while Griffith had childlike tendencies, Harry knew he was mature.

"Sure," Harry agreed after a moment of thought. "What did you have in mind?"

Her eyes lit up. "You mean it?!" He nodded. "I know all the hiding spots around here, or I can run and you can try to catch me, I'm fast just so you know. Or, or maybe we could go to the waterfall, or-," Erica began to list off activates much to her pleasure and Harry's acceptance.

Sir Laban, a nobleman of twenty-nine years and a knight and general of a portion of Midland's army knew that the war was nearing its end. It was as plain as day to all the generals who had attended the meeting that Chuder was close to defeat. Scouts had reported that a majority of Chuder's forces were now held up in the captured fortress of Doldrey, one of Midlands's best strongholds.

The report had stated that Sir Boscogn of the Purple Rhino Knights, supposedly Chuder's strongest commander was holding the fortress under the command of a Lord Gennon. Laban had heard enough about Boscogn's career to know that the rumors of his fighting prowess were no joke. Lord Gennon however, was the enigma to him.

Gennon was a wealthy lord, with an apparent perversion for young men, keeping a handful of boys as his pleasure slaves to suit his needs. Why Gennon was at Doldrey remained a mystery, but that made it all the more important to sack the fortress before the lord could leave. If Gennon is slain, then Chuder loses a substantial income of wealth.

The problem that lay before Midland's forces was deciding who should assault the fortress. Many a general feared that with Boscogn present, that the nearly impenetrable fortress was a lost cause. How soon they forget that Chuder had taken the impenetrable fortress from Midland, the action that sparked the hundred year war. Laban knew the true reason the rest of noblemen and generals did not wish to assault the fortress because they would be the ones in danger.

How they could govern Midland was lost logic on him and Sir Owen both. It seemed the only general willing to fully commit to the assault was the recently anointed General Griffith. He had volunteered to take Doldrey with just his own forces with no assistance from any of the other generals. This, of course, sparked a reaction from the others; a newly anointed low born general taking back the fortress of Doldrey? It seemed absurd.

They were even more taken aback when Laban himself gave Griffith his support for his plan to retake Doldrey. He cared little if Griffith was high born or low born, what mattered was that he was willing to commit himself to the cause, and that spoke more than any status in Laban's eyes. What did concern him was how eager Griffith seemed to be when Lord Gennon was mentioned to be at Doldrey. If Griffith somehow knew Gennon, it wouldn't bode well to have his emotions cloud his judgment.

"That was quite bold of you to put your faith in General Griffith like that," Sir Owen spoke with him after the war meeting was over with.

"A bold move for a bold man," Laban agreed. "He showed the most conviction, Midland needs that kind of spirit."

"At this rate, he's likely to win the hand of Princess Charlotte," Sir Owen half-joked. It was no secret that Griffith was moving up the social latter at an exponential rate. And with the princess' not so secret infatuation for the young hawk, it seemed inevitable.

"That is if our king allows it," Laban added. "He loves his daughter as a father should, but the princess is a woman flowered and his majesty has denied all marriage proposals for her hand."

"She's the last thing he has to remember of his first wife," Owen reminded. "We can only pray that the princess becomes like her real mother and not the woman her father married after her passing."

"Yes, her mother was such a sweet woman," Laban recalled the kings' marriage to the queen. She had even shared a dance with Laban during her wedding day. A beautiful woman, frail of health, but one of the sweetest persons to ever live. A drastic difference from the now queen earning her the secret nickname from Laban and Owen as Queen Cunt.

"I suppose Griffith's future with the princess will lie after the Battle of Doldrey," Owen concluded. "One way or another, the war is nearing its close."

"Agreed, my friend," Laban acknowledged. "Change is fast approaching Midland. And the White Hawk will be at its focal point."

A/N: So both Neville and Harry are getting new items. I also included Sirs Laban and Owen at the end of this chapter as they are two of my favorite side characters in the series. Thank you for reading.