Harry Potter was no stranger to fame or notoriety. For the vast majority of his adolescence, he'd had to endure the neverending onslaught of attention primarily driven by the well-oiled rumor-mongering machine of the wizarding press. So while his friends all marvelled at his newfound celebrity status, suddenly superseding that of traditional stars – the Stubby Boardmans, Oliver Woods, Lee Jordans of the world – seemingly overnight, Harry was not the least overwhelmed or disconcerted, and went on with his life as if nothing at all was amiss.

The day after, the Daily Prophet had been replete with headlines such as "Silent Slytherin Speaks Out in Historic First Interview" and "Exclusive! Wand-maker Ollivander Breaks Down Potter's First Task." All over the press were various pictures of him, most of them very flattering (perhaps even overly so), taken during the day of the first task: a close-up of him soaring mid-air looking incredibly stoic as Jörmungandr loomed behind him, a wide photograph of him hovering directly above the judges' table, and even an intimate shot of him looking entirely irreverent and carefree as he shook hands and chatted with Bones and Scrimgeour.

Even articles which, at face value, seemed to have nothing to do with Harry ended up involving him in one way or another. A political piece that had the headline "Clash Of Titans! Bones and Llewellyn Faces Off For the First Time Since Brussels" was accompanied not by a picture of the titular figures, but rather a candid shot of Harry shaking hands with the MACUSAN President; an op-ed titled "Ministry One Step Closer to Ratifying Statute Pact With COSEAN" mused whether Harry's performance against the Southeast Asian champion had an influence on the Minister's concession to the General-Secretary's demands.

Draco, in particular, seemed to harbour an unusual fascination with the spotlight put on Harry. Being an ardent subscriber of all sorts of newspapers and magazines, from popular publications like The Wizard's Voice to niche journals on Chocolate Frog collection, he took on the task of compiling all Harry-related articles with an almost voyeuristic delight, taking pleasure in pointing out all of Harry's appearances in the most obscure of channels.

There was that article in the Whisk Weekly, the premier publication for broom enthusiasts, analysing and extolling the performance of the Prongs Galloper against a fully-grown dragon and singing praises for Harry's expert use of it under duress. Directly next to the piece was the headline: "Nimbus Executive: 'The Nimbus 2001 Would've Worked Too.'" James had sent him a letter thanking him for the spike in sales, and Harry had replied in jest asking for his rightful royalties, which James had apparently taken seriously, sending him a large sack of gold. Harry had to hastily send it back with a note clarifying that it was, in fact, a joke and that he really didn't need the money, leading to a week-long ping-pong of money being mailed back and forth between the both of them, which ended with Harry having to grudgingly concede James' victory.

Another publication, an obscure magazine for hobbyist wandmakers and wandlore enthusiasts, was awash with analyses that went even deeper than Ollivander's general remarks in the Prophet, as well as speculation on how Harry obtained the elder wood and what runes were engraved in the shaft. Soon enough a special edition was released that transcended its intended audience, a didactic piece titled "The Amateur's Handbook To Crafting A Dragonslaying Wand", featuring a step-by-step speculative guide to replicating Harry's feat.

Daphne, who was reading the booklet with rapt attention, told him in faux horror: "This is bound to get some child to sneak into a dragon's pen to replicate your stunt. You're going to get some poor child killed."

"Alas," Harry had replied.

During breakfast one day, an entry in the Witch Weekly had all the seventh years in the Slytherin table howling with laughter, and Draco was trying with all his might to get Harry to look at it. "Look at what they're saying about you, look, go on!"

Harry pushed his face away, closing his eyes, refusing to look at whatever trash Draco was thrusting under his nose. "No, I'm not looking, I won't–"

"Please, Harry, it's priceless! Look!" Draco begged. "You're on the front cover! Merlin, how did they even get that picture of you?"

Within Hogwarts, it was much the same with regards to the attention.

Harry had been a somewhat popular figure amongst the student body ever since he was made champion, and his performance in the first task only served to exacerbate this status, especially as he began to break out of his self-imposed shell and engaged in student activities he had previously avoided.

Liza had also undergone a sudden metamorphosis ever since her outburst in the first task, and in addition to putting greater priority on her schoolwork, she spent the bulk of her free time either practicing Quidditch or organising impromptu matches between the three schools, at times playing the role of the referee and at others the Hogwarts Captain. In such events, Harry often participated as the resident Seeker, providing yet another avenue for him to inadvertently accrue a reputation for excellence.

At Draco's urging, he also started attending the Duelling Club, to the glee of Professor Flitwick, the organizer. Harry casually sparred against such students as Diane Thorne and Tracey Davis, won some duels and lost others. But it was not the competitive aspect that made him enlist as a full member. Rather, it was the opportunity to be a mentor to the younger students, a responsibility bestowed to the club's older members.

Teaching was a joy he was only just beginning to rediscover, bringing him back to the days of leading Dumbledore's Army in his old world. He was so taken by this stimulating and instructional atmosphere, in which students were genuinely eager to learn and improve their skills and listen to what he had to say, that at times he forgot he was in a different world and that the students here were not the same as those he had taught in his fifth year. Sometimes he accidentally spoke to past D.A. members like Colin Creevey and Nigel Wolpert with more familiarity than he should, but no one seemed to think anything of it. To them, it was just one of the many idiosyncrasies that must naturally make up a figure as "enigmatic" and "brilliant" as the Champion of Hogwarts.

Students in the club flocked away from the previous star mentor, Neville, to be taught by Harry. As time went on, and as Harry's eminence within the student population swelled even further, he felt himself being unwillingly dragged into some sort of pissing contest with the Head Boy for the de facto role of student leader. Harry had no intention of ever taking on such a role, insofar as it even existed, nor did he wish to compete with Neville over it, yet still this invisible rivalry laced their every interaction, outwardly friendly though they may be. Always, Neville went to great pains to elevate himself and assert his own superiority, which increasingly fell flat to Harry's sheer uninterested detachment from the whole affair. It was as if Neville was boxing shadows and was somehow still losing.

As the holidays drew closer in time, there became very little room for free time in Harry's schedule. Immediately after the first task, he had redirected his focus to his classes, having neglected them during his period of preparation. He caught up quickly just in time for the sudden ramp-up in the pace of lessons as professors did all they could to complete their curriculum before the Christmas break, after which there would be no new content to learn, and all that would be left was revision and practice.

Naturally, this hectic schedule left Harry little time to work on his wand, at a time when the completion of his wand became more and more important. The elder wand, still crude and unrefined after the merging of the core, was a little too overzealous and prone to overreaction. Fire a quick Engorgio at a bottle, and it would grow to be half the size of the room; try a simple Lumos, and the wand would erupt with the light of the sun and blind everyone in the room.

When such accidents occurred, his peers would roll their eyes and say things like "There goes Potter, showing off again!" or "We get it, Harry, you have a powerful wand!" Harry's insistence that he wasn't showing off, and that he was, in fact, desperately struggling to tame the unruly wand, fell entirely on deaf ears.

One morning, during a rare moment of relaxation in his dorm room, where he was lounging on his bed in his pajamas, munching on candy, and mindlessly reading a comic he had borrowed from Theo, Draco burst into the room, a copy of the Daily Prophet in hand. Through experience, Harry knew that this signified the publication of a new article that concerned him, but the solemn expression he wore, which was so foreign on Draco's face, threw him off.

"Mate, you have to read this," he said urgently, practically throwing the paper at him.

Harry sat up with a groan, unfolded the paper, and began to read.

WHO IS HARRY POTTER?

Rita Skeeter, Gossip Correspondent.

Last month, the notoriously elusive Champion of Hogwarts, whom some people aptly refer to as the Silent Slytherin – a nickname cleverly coined by the present writer – shocked the wizarding world with his debut in the public eye, which just so happened to be the first task of the annual Triwizard Tournament. Much has been said of Potter's spectacular display of magic, but to the writer's unending frustration, very little effort has been made to unravel what is, perhaps, the most intriguing question of all: who is Harry Potter?

Unlike his fellow champions, Potter's background remains a mystery. Diane Thorne is a noted duelling superstar with distinguished academic prowess, as evidenced by her accolades in various magical Olympiads and other competitions. Haitham Hadimangalla is a Javanese prince whose descendance from the Sultan of Mataram can be testified, and whose attendance in educational events such as the Model IWC – much like Diane Thorne's – is well documented. [For more on the prince, see the present author's debut entry in the Nanyang Daily, a breakthrough piece of investigative journalism uncovering the champion's involvement in the Sultan's secret plot to overthrow the Confederation of Southeast Asian Nations (COSEAN).]

But what do we know of Harry Potter? The answer, it seems, despite this correspondent's best efforts, is almost nothing. We know that Potter is a recent entry to Hogwarts, but which school he had transferred from remains a mystery. The author has scoured the records of every public and state-funded educational institution in Great Britain and beyond but has failed to find any indication of Harry Potter having attended any of them. It could likely be the case, then, that Potter had received private tutoring, which isn't so unusual. After all, according to the 1995 Census, 19% of British wizarding families rejected formal schooling in favour of a private education.

But then: who, exactly, had tutored this talented young wizard, and, more importantly, who had raised him? For someone who had garnered so much renown so quickly, it is curious that noone has come forward to claim him as their student. Indeed, the present author has sent inquiries to numerous renowned private tutors and magical academics across Britain and Europe, and all deny having trained or even met young Mr. Potter. Pressingly, the author is equally uncertain of the identity of Potter's parents, there being no mention of them in any public records available to the author.

But in her relentless search, the author has been alerted, by a trusted source who wished to remain anonymous, of something incredibly disturbing…

James Potter and Lily Potter, as readers might know, are both respected members of the British magical community. Mr. Potter is a renowned broom-maker and entrepreneur, Mrs. Potter is a professor and researcher of Potions at Hogwarts, and both are recipients of the Order of Merlin, Second Class. But for what reason were they awarded this prize?

Everyone knows of the Siege of Longbottom Manor, when the serial murderer and terrorist Tom Marvolo Riddle, who called himself Lord Voldemort, attempted to vanquish the baby whom he believed was prophesied to be his end. There he was entrapped, and finally defeated, by the now-disbanded paramilitary vigilante organization the Order of the Phoenix, headed by Albus Dumbledore, and with the help of the Ministry. Mr. and Mrs. Potter were involved in this battle, and their contribution is officially recognized by their Order of Merlins.

What is lesser known, however, is that months before this took place, Lord Voldemort had attacked the Potters' home in Godric Hollow and killed their infant son. According to the writer's source, the prophecy that the maniacal pure-blood supremacist had so wholeheartedly believed in could have applied to both the Potters' son and the Longbottoms'. This tragic loss is, unfortunately, but a footnote in Lord Voldemort's so-called Year of Terror, just one of the many deaths which would later be overshadowed by the Potters' own contributions to his downfall.

Regardless, what does this have to do with our champion? Brace yourself, dear reader… The name of the Potters' son, who had supposedly perished in the night of Halloween, is Harry James Potter – who would have been in his seventh year had he lived, just like the Longbottoms' son, and just like our champion. Before the reader runs wild with all sorts of fanciful theories, the honourable writer begs the reader to look at the facts. For one, our champion is pointedly missing the middle name "James". For another, informants including the writer's source have consistently reported the relationship between Mr. James Potter and our champion as distant cousins, and their interactions as familial, but not parental in nature.

Still, the coincidence cannot simply be waved away. If, indeed, our Harry is distantly related to the Potters, then why can the present writer not uncover a link in any family tree, nor find any trace of his parentage? It is furthermore noted that it was the Potters who were present at the first task to support Harry Potter, occupying the reserved family section of the viewing box. Where are his parents? Moreover, many have noted the physical similarity between Mr. James Potter and his "nephew". What could this mean?

Could Harry be the illegitimate son of Mr. Potter and some unnamed mother, scandalously conceived at the same time as the late H.J.P, hidden away for years and finally revealed to the world just in time for the Tournament? It would explain his apparent sibling-like relationship he shares with "cousin" and fellow student Liza Potter, as noted by the correspondent's source, and would indeed explain much else besides… Or is something more sinister afoot?

Out of respect for the persons involved, the present writer has chosen not to delve too deeply into such speculations without substantive evidence. Certainly, what the author has revealed does not take away from our champion's incredible achievements and contributions to upholding British prestige, but it does beg the question: what are the Potters hiding?

His eyes lingered on the last line of the article, though his mind had ventured to all sorts of places. At first, he had regarded the piece with the same measure of wry amusement and general indifference as every other paper that had been written of him, but the more he read the more enraged he got, and when she began involving the Potters his anger crystallized into a blinding hatred for Skeeter. He conjured up images of that woman as a bug, trapped within the little enclosure Hermione had once set up for her, and that made him feel a little bit better.

"Wow," he said, very much conscious of the fact that Draco was looking at him closely. He crumpled the newspaper. "What a load of bull…"

"I know, right?" said Draco, mirroring his disdain. Evidently, he had waited for Harry's reaction before deciding how to appropriately react. "And bringing up Professor Potter's dead son like that. What a cow!"

Harry set the paper aside, staring morosely at the carpet, increasingly aware of how much trouble and scandal this would bring to James and Lily, of the stain that was presently being painted on their pitch-perfect reputations. And all because of him, all because he couldn't just stay out of the limelight, all because he had selfishly decided to enter the Tournament to gratify his own pride.

"Hey," said Draco, noticing his expression. "Look–" He picked up the crumpled piece of paper and tossed it straight into the trash bin. "Look, that's nothing, alright? Skeeter's a wretched hag, and no one ever believes her anyway. They'll see right through the nonsense. This'll all blow over, you know that, right?"

"Yeah…"

But deep down, Harry knew it wouldn't.

That day, he convened with Liza and Lily in the professor's office. Harry sat with his shoulders slumped against the chair in front of Lily's desk. Behind him, Liza was pacing frantically, like a little ball of outraged energy that bounced back and forth across the room, shoulders brushing and bumping against the various potions paraphernalia that lined the shelves and racks. In her anger, she knocked over a beaker of bubbling green water that crashed and spilled all over the floor.

"Well, I suppose it's inevitable," said Lily, who was seated behind her desk with pursed lips.

He wasn't sure if she was talking about the article or the shattered beaker. With a lazy wave of her wand, she mended the glass and reabsorbed the liquid into it, before sending it marching away to a distant shelf, far from Liza.

"I can't believe Skeeter implied that dad…" Liza said, stopping in her steps, her voice high and heated. "Everyone's seen the article. All my friends are talking about it. I tried telling them, but–" And then she turned sharply towards her mother. "We can't let this stand, can we, mum? Can we take legal action?"

"I expect your father will try," she replied, tapping a finger on the desk. "His honour has been put into question, and he will defend it with his life. But it's a fool's errand."

"Why? Dad has loads of money, doesn't he? And connections in the Ministry. He can sue her to the ground!"

"Skeeter's not exactly wanting for money herself," Lily remarked. "And never forget who is backing her, Liza. The Daily Prophet is not someone we want to make an enemy out of." She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and sighed. "But… yes. In the end, your father has just enough pull to pick a fight with Skeeter and the Prophet. Perhaps he might even win. But it's not worth the effort. She'll take us down with her. No, I'll talk him out of it."

Liza glanced between Lily and Harry and, in that moment, seemingly took on their attitude of sullen resignation, dragging herself over to the seat next to Harry. "What should we do, then?"

"Nothing. Well, James and I will put out a statement, and Alice and Frank won't appreciate their names being used in this way, so they'll probably do the same too. We have other friends who will no doubt want to decry this rubbish as well. But other than that, best not add fuel to the fire. It won't be a big deal if we don't treat it like a big deal."

Harry was increasingly wracked with guilt and misery over the whole affair, and had spent the past hour or so thinking about how he should apologize. For all the time he had taken to muster up the words, however, it still came out as terribly ineloquent: "Lily, it's all my fault… Entering the tournament, the attention… If I hadn't baited the press–"

"Don't you put this on yourself, Harry," said Lily firmly. "The only one to blame here is Skeeter. I don't want you to lose sleep over this. You too, Liza. James and I are adults, we've gone through worse, and we can handle some undue attention. The only thing you should worry about are your studies and the Tournament – let us worry about this alone." Liza groaned. "The gossiping here is gonna be so unbearable. People are already talking."

Lily clucked her tongue. "I've told you time and time again, Liza, what should you care what other people think? Keep your head down, let people say what they want to say, and none of this will matter in a month."

"I bet Skeeter's source is a student," she went on miserably, Lily's words clearly going in one ear and out the other. "I can't bear it, mum. People here have such big mouths…"

Harry frowned, picked up the newspaper again to pore over the words. Overcome with indignation, he had not put much consideration into the 'anonymous source' that Skeeter apparently relied on, but as he mulled over every mention of this mysterious figure, the more their identity became clear…His heart sank, and he glanced at Liza and Lily, who were still arguing about pointless things; he knew they wouldn't like it, knowing who the source actually was, so he stayed silent.

If he must deal with this, then he shall do so alone.

Over the next few days, the Daily Prophet published statements from the Potters and the Longbottoms, and condemnations from a flurry of other former Order members who now held eminent positions in Wizarding society. A retraction was issued, and a formal apology printed on behalf of the correspondent in question (Skeeter herself had seemingly disappeared after the public outcry.)

But the damage had been done. In truth, his day-to-day life in Hogwarts changed very little since the article's publication. He was still held in high regard, and for some, the complete and utter mystery that shrouded his past only served to reinforce the enigmatic picture they had of him, elevating him even further in their eyes as an object of fascination. Who cared if he was a bastard son? Well, some others did. People stared and pointed at him, yes, but they had done that anyway, and the only thing that was different was the occasional hushed tones with which they spoke when they thought he wasn't listening, as well as the giggles.

All this would normally not trouble him in the slightest… if the whispers did not involve the Potters, and, by extension, Liza, whom he saw as the true blameless victims in this ordeal. The humiliation he had brought on them weighed on him heavily, as did Liza's accusation of his selfishness, which recent events seemed to have proven rang true.

This state of mind provided the catalyst for his actions one evening in the duelling club.

The club venue was a hidden basement, to which the means of entry was kept a closely guarded secret from non-members. To enter, one had to navigate to the stairway next to the second year Charms classroom, bound up and down the steps in a very specific sequence, touch the correct rune (which changed every month) on the wall, and wait for the stairs to rearrange themselves to lead to the room in question. Inside, the chamber was cavernous, dank, and kept deliberately grungy, with multiple duelling platforms lining the floor and dummies scattered all throughout.

All this served to give an exciting air of exclusivity and illicitness to club activities, even though it was officially sanctioned by Hogwarts and run by Professor Flitwick. Still, it was this atmosphere that had entranced him at first and took him back to the days of Dumbledore's Army. There were nearly a hundred people in the club, over half of whom had joined after he did, presumably upon hearing of his membership. Flitwick did not seem to mind: so long as people were practicing their charms and honing their duelling skills in this controlled environment, he was happy.

Presently, Harry had just finished supervising a rather bitter spar between two fifth-years. After offering them praises on their ability, critiques on their form, and stern reminders of adhering to proper duelling etiquette, he wandered off rather aimlessly. After walking for a while, he stopped before the platform where Neville was duelling Dennis Creevey, around which many students gathered to watch.

It was really no match, and insofar as a duel was actually happening, it more so resembled a patient father humoring his overzealous child in a game, deliberately pulling his punches to keep him in high spirits and perhaps to teach a lesson. With every spell Dennis fired, Neville deflected deftly while imparting advice on where he went wrong, without ever launching attacks of his own. When the former eventually grew discouraged and the latter bored, the "duel" was ended with a quick and lazy disarming charm. This was received with polite clapping.

"Good work, Dennis," said Neville paternally, throwing back his wand. "I can see you're improving bit by bit. Practice your footwork as I told you, and you'll get there quickly. Now, who's next?"

Harry raised his hand immediately. "I think I wanna have a go, Neville."

Neville whipped his head towards him, clearly not expecting him, of all people, to volunteer. Excited whispers rippled through the crowd.

Harry had probably sparred against just about everyone in the club… everyone, save for Neville. It was a silent, unwritten agreement that barred them from facing one another: despite whatever confidence Neville might have felt in his own skills, he seemed entirely unwilling to risk losing to Harry, which he perhaps thought would mean a final and irreversible blow to his reputation; and Harry had never cared enough to challenge him outright. And so they avoided one another, they who practically co-ran the club along with Flitwick, the two most popular mentors, one Head Boy and one champion, occasionally cooperating to teach but never facing each other directly.

But now Harry was challenging him in the public eye, in front of the entire club, and he was left with no choice but to accept lest he tarnish that reputation he so prized.

Neville shrugged, apparently unbothered. "Alright, Harry. Why don't you come on up?"

So Harry did. The platform was a long, elevated rectangle with a circle in the middle. This rather confined space was just one of the factors that separated formal duelling from actual battle. The latter was more his forte. There was little room to dodge and weave, a favourite move of his, and it was indeed considered bad form to avoid engaging with the opponent's spell – magic must be dealt with magic. But whatever deficit of skill and experience Harry had in this kind of formalized duelling, which had led to his fair share of losses against seasoned players like Diane, he more than made up for with the sheer, raw power of the elder wand.

"Ready when you are," said Neville, approaching the central circle and extending his wand-hand.

As was custom, Harry tapped the tip of his wand against Neville's, beginning the duel.

Harry had found that there was a certain rhythm to all formal duels. Attack and block, counter and block, back and forth like a game of tennis. Speed mattered: the faster you fired your attack, the more time you had to respond, and the faster you responded the sooner you could block or, preferably, make a counter. In this way, a split-second advantage could compound into a dominant lead, and a single mistake – a misfired spell, a faulty shield – could immediately turn the tides of the duel. The person who had the advantage – the person who attacked more than he blocked – controls the pace and strives to dominate the other by forcing them into a defensive position of always reacting and never acting, until they get so overwhelmed that they leave an "Expelliarmus" undefended. There was no other way to win a formal duel than to disarm the opponent.

This was the way all duels went, and it was certainly no different as in the case of their bout.

It started fairly evenly. They traded spells and counters in rapid succession, all of which had the purpose of pressing an advantage, and none of which were expected to truly land on their target. At this level, all spells were fired wordlessly and backed with great power, and in the space between them could be seen a blur of colour and sparks that occasionally bounced off the platform.

If anyone could be said to have the lead in that first minute, it would be Neville. Each flick of his wand was calculated, rehearsed, and performed with a nimble poise, but more than that, his experience had granted him an intuition for the sequence of spells that could flow together seamlessly and cause the most difficulty for his opponent's defense. A Confringo, whose counter required Harry to swing his wand in a wide arc, was naturally followed by a Stupefy aimed low, which required him to aim his shield directly at where the spell would hit.

Neville thus controlled the rhythm, but whatever advantage he won quickly dwindled to a strategy Harry had recently discovered, only possible due to the strength of his wand. If he fired his attack with enough oomph, the opponent was forced to take just a little more time and effort into crafting his counter or blocking the spell, breaking the flow of his attack. This was Harry's tempo: slow and steady bursts of energy that served to assert his control of the duel's pace.

Until he saw an opening, a momentary delay in Neville's defense.

All at once he surged forward with a rapid barrage of spells, each precise and cutting. There was no mistaking this shift in momentum, and Harry took the opportunity. It was not tactics that maintained his advantage now, but rather the cumulative sum of his pent-up anger and frustration, his shame and guilt, all suddenly directed towards one man.

Even when blocked by a shield charm, a spell could still cause harm and pain, just as a bullet fired on a bulletproof vest could bruise and knock the wind out of the person wearing it. With this in mind, Harry continued his relentless onslaught with a single-minded desire to punish Neville.

Blasting curses boomed against Neville's shield, sending him reeling black, flinching; cutting curses pierced the air with a ripping sound, to be deflected with a wince. Still, Neville fought on with a desperate determination, and when he finally slipped up and left himself undefended, Harry didn't 'go in for the kill', so to say, and instead continued to deliver his veritable beating. When he felt he had made his point, he relaxed, and let the duel take its natural course.

Neville wasted no time in exploiting this sudden change in pace, and though clearly rattled by the bashing, quickly regained his footing and reclaimed the rhythm. His years of training and experience, his skill with the wand, his natural aptitude for magic all came into play as he pushed on with his own calculated assault. Soon enough he had the advantage again, and when Harry could sense him bracing for the kill, he made no move to preemptively defend himself, and instead only launched a half-hearted attack in response.

The first spell either of them said out loud was fired by Neville, and it was the "Expelliarmus!" that ended the duel.

The crowd erupted into enthusiastic clapping, and even Flitwick had scurried over to express his delight at the spectacular match-up. Many a cheer came from the crowd: "Ooh, unlucky, Harry!" "That was brilliant!" "Good job, Nev!"

With a gracious smile, he extended his hand towards Neville, who shook it silently. Then Harry stepped off and wandered away to continue mentoring, and all the while he could feel Neville's eyes boring into the back of his head.

After Flitwick called the end of the club's meeting, Harry lingered with the pretext of imparting final words of encouragement to everyone before the winter break. He could see Neville doing the same. When the crowd had thinned to a sufficient degree, he approached the Head Boy with a nonchalant gait.

"Neville," he said. "A quick word?"

Without responding, face guarded, Neville followed him into the corner as the last of the lingering students filtered out of the chamber. They waved goodbye at Professor Flitwick, who loudly excused himself to his two prized students, while at the same time warily eyeing the evident tension between the two.

It was Neville who spoke when they were left alone at last. "You let me win."

"What?" he asked, putting on an innocent expression. "Didn't quite catch that."

"You held back." Neville's brown eyes were sharp and cutting. "I'm not stupid. You gave me a beating. You had me on the ropes, but then you just stopped. You let me disarm you. Why?"

"I tried as hard as I could to beat you, Nev," he said, putting his hands up. "Believe me on that. You won fair and square."

"Because you allowed me to."

Harry sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose. He didn't mean for it to go like this. "Speaking hypothetically, even if I did – if – then what does it matter, anyway? You won. Everyone saw it."

Neville clenched his jaw, looking away for a moment as if to compose himself. "I don't need you to hand me victories on a silver platter, Potter. It's insulting."

"Neville." Harry eyed Neville's clenched fists warily, but did not take a step back. "I don't know what to tell you. This was meant to be a peace offering."

"A peace offering?"

"For you to save face," he said. "I don't care about winning some duel. I'm not your enemy, Neville. I think you're a top bloke. You're good friends with Liza. You're a leader, good teacher to your students, and you're clearly very talented in–"

"Oh, cheers," said Neville sardonically.

"Look, I'm not here to steal your thunder," Harry went on, ignoring his remark. "Or take over as Head Boy or whatever. I don't care about that sort of stuff, alright? So you can go on being the top dog here, the smartest boy in the room, the best duelist in the club, or whatever it is you think I'm trying to take from you. I don't want to compete with you – I have enough to worry about as is with the Tournament."

He laughed. It was a sharp, humourless sound. "Of course you're gloating about that to me. Of course."

"I'm sorry you didn't make the cut, Neville," he said. "And I'm sorry I put my name in. I'm sorry you think I lied. But it's not my fault the Goblet chose me over you."

Neville stepped forward, his expression dark, and Harry braced for an altercation, his muscles tensing. But instead, Neville just pulled his hair out in frustration, leaning against the wall. "You think it's about – that? My ego? My pride? Do you think that's what this is all about?"

"Is it?" His tone took on an edge, and he held Neville's gaze firmly. "Is that not why you spoke to Skeeter?"

Neville froze, whatever anger he had exhibited subsiding into something like shame, and fear. He masked it quickly, though, and looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

If Harry had harboured any doubts about his instincts, it disappeared the moment he saw this reaction – practically an admittance of guilt. It had all clicked to Harry instantly. The 'trusted source' being the one to alert Skeeter to the family history of the Longbottoms and the Potters. He had always suspected, deep down, that Neville knew something was off about him; he could still remember their first meeting in the corridor of the Hogwarts Express, the piercing stare of his sharp eyes, his pointed remark about his physical similarity with James.

There were also other telling references in the article: the fact that the source knew that he was 'distant cousins' with the Potters, and could report that he and Liza apparently shared a "sibling-like" relationship, all pointed to someone close to them, most probably someone in Hogwarts, as Liza had thought. And who else nursed a grudge so deep that they might stoop to collaborating with someone like Skeeter for a hit piece?

"Don't lie to me, Neville. I know it was you."

Red crept up Neville's neck, and he took a step back, flustered.

"I didn't ask her to write that," he insisted. "She was gonna write it anyway. I just told her what I knew. And what of it – you have a suspicious background, no one could doubt that. I really didn't think it would cause such a stir."

"You can say anything you want about me," Harry said. "I don't care. Really, I don't. But when you involve the Potters, who housed me and fed me in a time of need, who took me in when they really didn't need to – that's when I take issue. Do you even realize what you've done, Neville? Liza, your friend. Everyone's calling her dad an adulterer. How do you think she feels about that?"

Neville's silence was damning. He looked at his feet and made no response.

"I read your parents' article," he went on softly. "It's a touching piece. The loss of the Potters' son, Voldemort's attack on your home, your mother apparating you away only to come back and fight. Do they know it was you that spoke to Skeeter? What do you think they'll say if they knew?"

He looked up at Harry in horror, face paling.

"Harry, no," he begged. "Please, don't–"

"I'm not going to let them know. As I said, I'm not your enemy, and I don't want to be. I don't have time for enemies." Harry sighed again, taking a step back, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't very good at this, but it needed to happen. "It's just something to keep in mind if you think of pulling something like that again, yeah?"

Harry stood silently, letting the weight of his words settle, watching as genuine remorse flooded into his face. When the uncomfortable silence had stretched for long enough, he offered his hand again. "Look, I'm willing to put this behind us. Are we good, Neville?"

Neville looked at him, hesitating. The resentment and hatred in his eyes never dissipated – in fact, it had only swelled – but it also swirled with other emotions he could sense: fear, guilt, shame. But still, he took Harry's hand, palms sweaty, and shook it.

"We're good," he said glumly.