The stale, humid air of the warehouse clung to Harry and Neville like a second skin. The adrenaline from the fight still thrummed in Harry's veins, a low, satisfying hum. He glanced at Hannah, her bright face a stark contrast to the brutal surroundings. He had to admit, Neville had changed. Seeing him in action was unnerving, a controlled fury he hadn't witnessed before.
"Alright then," Harry said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's make it worthwhile. Winner takes all tonight's winnings, plus all the Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans they can eat for a month."
Neville's eyes gleamed. "You're on. No magic, though. Purely boxing?" He knew Harry's instincts. He'd spent years fighting magical creatures, duelling dark wizards, and instinctively relied on magic. Taking that away evened the playing field.
Harry grinned, a flash of teeth in the dim light. "Deal. Tomorrow night, same time, same place. Let's give these guys a show they won't forget."
Hannah, a practical Hufflepuff through and through, intervened. "Before you two beat each other senseless, perhaps we should find somewhere less… aromatic to discuss this further? I'm sure there are establishments in Surrey that offer drinks that haven't been fermenting in a sweaty sock."
They all laughed, the sound echoing strangely within the cavernous warehouse. As they walked out into the relative freshness of the night air, Harry couldn't help but feel a knot of anticipation tighten in his stomach. Neville had a fire in him, a raw strength he hadn't truly tapped into until recently. He was going to have to be on his guard.
The next evening, the atmosphere in the warehouse was palpably different. Instead of the usual motley crew of street punks, a more… respectable clientele had gathered. Word had spread. Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom, war heroes, going toe-to-toe in a bare-knuckle brawl. The novelty was irresistible.
Harry saw Ron and Hermione standing near the makeshift ring, just a cleared space on the dusty floor, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"You two didn't have to come," Harry said.
"Couldn't miss it," Ron said, his voice tight. Hermione just gave him a disapproving look.
Neville arrived, Hannah at his side. He'd traded his perpetually rumpled robes for simple jeans and a t-shirt, revealing surprisingly well-defined muscles. Harry hadn't noticed Neville's physique before. He had always been a bit gangly, but now…
The crowd roared as they stepped into the ring. A burly man with a shaved head, who looked like he'd swallowed a refrigerator, acted as referee. He gave them a quick rundown of the rules: no hitting below the belt, no eye-gouging, and no biting. Obvious, but necessary.
"Touch gloves," the referee barked.
Harry and Neville clasped hands, their grip firm and respectful. A lifetime of friendship and shared trauma flowed between them in that brief moment.
"Don't hold back," Neville said, his voice low.
"Never do," Harry replied.
The referee stepped back and blew a whistle. The fight began.
Neville came at Harry with a surprising burst of speed, throwing a jab that Harry barely dodged. The force of the blow made him stumble back. This wasn't the awkward, hesitant Neville he knew. This was a predator, confident and ruthless.
Harry knew he was in for the fight of his life. He circled Neville, studying his movements, looking for an opening. Neville pressed the attack, throwing a series of punches that Harry blocked and dodged, relying on his quicker reflexes. He had to wear Neville down while avoiding his powerful hits. This was going to be a long night.
The air crackled with tension. Each near miss, each thud of a fist against flesh, drew gasps from the crowd. Harry managed to land a few jabs of his own, snapping Neville's head back, but they seemed to have little effect. Neville absorbed the blows like a sturdy oak taking a light rain.
Harry noticed a slight twitch in Neville's left shoulder just before he threw a right hook. A tell. He kept that information tucked away, a small advantage in the growing storm. He danced around Neville, careful not to get cornered. He knew Neville's strength; one solid hit could end the fight.
Round after round, they traded blows. Harry's speed and agility were keeping him in the game, but Neville's raw power was undeniable. Harry felt a trickle of blood run from his nose, tasting the metallic tang in his mouth. He wiped it impatiently on his sleeve, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Hermione was practically vibrating with anxiety. He caught her eye briefly and saw a mixture of distress and reluctant fascination. Ron, predictably, was yelling encouragement, his face flushed with excitement.
As the fight wore on, Harry saw a flicker of fatigue in Neville's eyes. His punches were still powerful, but his movements were slower, less precise. Now was the time.
Feigning exhaustion, Harry leaned against the ropes, letting Neville come to him. Neville, sensing an opportunity, surged forward, winding up for a haymaker.
That was the opening Harry had been waiting for.
Remembering the tell, he anticipated the swing, ducking low and pivoting on his feet. Neville's fist whistled harmlessly over his head, leaving him momentarily off balance. Harry seized his chance, driving a hard right uppercut into Neville's midsection.
The air left Neville's lungs in a whoosh. He stumbled backward, his face contorted in pain. Harry pressed his advantage, landing a series of quick jabs to Neville's face, each blow snapping his head back.
Neville rallied, throwing wild, desperate punches, but his power was diminished. Harry easily dodged them, continuing his relentless assault.
Finally, with a groan, Neville went down. He landed heavily on the dusty floor, his body limp.
The crowd erupted. Some cheered for Harry, others groaned in disappointment. The referee rushed forward, kneeling beside Neville and starting the count.
"One… two… three…"
Neville groaned, attempting to push himself up, but his body wouldn't respond.
"Four… five… six…"
Harry stood over him, his chest heaving, his body aching. He wanted to help Neville up, but he couldn't. Not yet.
"Seven… eight…"
Neville managed to get onto his knees, his head hanging low. He looked up at Harry, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and respect.
"Nine…"
Neville shook his head slowly. He couldn't go on.
"Ten! He's out!" The referee declared, raising Harry's arm in victory.
The cheers swelled, but Harry barely heard them. He knelt beside Neville, helping him sit up.
"You alright?" Harry asked, his voice rough.
Neville managed a weak smile. "You fought well, mate. Bloody hell, you hit hard."
Harry chuckled, a wave of relief washing over him. "So do you. I think you broke my nose."
Hannah rushed into the ring, kneeling beside Neville and examining him with concern. "Are you hurt? You look awful."
"Just a bit winded," Neville said, wincing as he tried to move. "And maybe a few broken ribs."
Ron and Hermione pushed through the crowd, their faces a mixture of relief and worry. Hermione immediately started fussing over Neville, checking his pulse and examining his injuries.
"You both were insane!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling. "Insane!"
Harry grinned. "But you watched, didn't you?"
Hermione rolled her eyes, but a small smile played on her lips.
As they helped Neville out of the ring, Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. He'd proven himself, not just to the crowd, but to himself. He could still fight, even without magic. And he'd rediscovered a deep respect for his friend. Neville wasn't the awkward boy he remembered. He was a warrior, a force to be reckoned with.
He knew that this fight, more than just a bare-knuckle brawl, had cemented their bond, forging a new layer of respect and understanding between them. And while the Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans were a nice bonus, the real prize was the renewed appreciation for the strength and resilience they both possessed. They were survivors, fighters, and friends, bound together by a lifetime of shared experiences, both magical and mundane. And tonight, they had proven it to each other and the world.