A Tale of Rivals
By Elk99
A/N: Some more relationship building as we slowly process through this year.
The clatter of tankards and the low hum of conversation filled the Three Broomsticks, warm and golden in the midafternoon light. Their group was finishing up lunch—empty butterbeer bottles scattered between plates of half-eaten shepherd's pie—when Daphne excused herself to the loo.
She didn't expect to run into Sally Anne Perks.
The Gryffindor was washing her hands at the basin, eyes a little puffy but posture composed. She didn't startle when Daphne entered, just glanced at her reflection in the mirror and continued drying her fingers.
Daphne leaned casually against the tiled wall; arms crossed like she had all the time in the world.
"You alright?" she asked, voice light—too light to be prying, but just sharp enough to slice through any evasions.
Sally Anne blinked at her reflection. "Yeah. Just... nerves."
Daphne gave a small, knowing smile, the kind that meant she'd already figured out more than she was letting on. "You don't need to be nervous. He likes you."
Sally Anne turned toward her. Her expression flickered—skepticism, uncertainty, maybe something softer underneath. "You'd know, I guess."
"I do," Daphne said. Her tone wasn't sharp, but it had steel in it. "He's one of my best friends. He's... complicated. But loyal."
"Sometimes I don't think he knows what he wants."
"Oh, he does," Daphne replied—too quickly. Then, catching herself, she softened. "He just hasn't figured out how to want it out loud."
That earned a pause. Sally Anne hesitated, tucking a loose hair behind her ear. "I don't want to make things weird between you two."
Daphne waved her off with the flick of a wrist. "Please. He's allowed to have both of us in his life."
The air between them shifted. Less brittle now.
A beat passed, and then: "Come sit with us."
Sally Anne blinked. "What?"
"I know he's sat with your friends before," Daphne shrugged. "Come sit with us. You're not a secret."
Sally Anne hesitated—clearly surprised—but nodded. "Let me grab my things."
"I'll come with you."
They walked out of the loo together, quiet but steady. A few heads turned as they crossed the floor, but neither girl seemed to notice. Sally Anne and her friends had, coincidentally, been seated at a table clear on the other side of the pub—far enough from the Slytherins that the crowd had hidden them from view. As they approached, Lavender looked up, pausing her conversation with Parvati Patil and Sophie Roper.
"Everything alright?" Lavender asked, eyes flicking between the two girls.
"Perfect," Daphne answered smoothly. "She's joining us."
Sally Anne bent to gather her scarf and bag. Lavender gave her a look that said we will be discussing this, but nodded in approval. Parvati offered a subtle thumbs-up. Sophie just smiled and gave her hand a squeeze.
And then, with Daphne flanking her like a slightly terrifying royal chaperone, Sally Anne crossed the pub—toward Edmund's table.
At the Slytherin table, life carried on. Tracey was in the middle of an animated story about a duel in the corridor. Blaise was languidly tracing patterns in the condensation on his butterbeer glass. Helen was half-listening, half-skimming the Prophet, and all-too-happy to be doing both. Edmund, meanwhile, was rearranging crumbs on his plate with all the focus of someone trying not to think about anything too loudly.
He looked up—and nearly dropped his bottle.
Sally Anne was walking toward him.
With Daphne.
They moved in easy, synchronized tandem, not smiling but not tense either—like diplomats fresh from negotiating a ceasefire. Edmund's brain stalled. For a fleeting, absurd second, he felt like he should stand up. Or offer a toast. Or quietly fake his own death and escape through the fireplace.
Instead, he blinked and scooted over to make room.
Sally Anne reached the table, cheeks a bit flushed. "Daphne said it would be alright if I joined."
"Of course," Edmund said quickly. "Yes. Definitely. Sit." He cleared space on the bench with the urgency of someone trying to win favor with fate—stacking empty plates, vanishing stray napkins, brushing crumbs from the table as though cleanliness might somehow compensate for nerves.
Daphne slid into her usual spot across from Blaise and immediately began buttering a fresh roll, completely unbothered, like she hadn't just performed a minor social miracle. Sally Anne hesitated for a breath, then sat beside Edmund.
Her cloak brushed his arm. The faint scent of lilac curled in the air—familiar and soft. Different from the deeper, duskier scent of plum and cedar that always accompanied Daphne. For a moment, everything was still.
"Everyone," Edmund said, more composed than he felt, "this is Sally Anne Perks."
Sally Anne gave a small wave. "Hi."
Tracey blinked. "Oh. Right. The Gryffindor."
"Very specific," Sally Anne replied, arching an eyebrow.
"She means the one we've heard about for months," Helen chimed in, tucking away the Prophet. "Nice to meet you. Officially."
Blaise gave a solemn nod, as if passing judgment on a diplomatic delegation. "Welcome to the disaster."
Edmund, feeling slightly more himself now, gestured around the table. "Sally Anne, this is Blaise Zabini—who pretends to be aloof but keeps emotional ledgers. Tracey Davis—who might still hex me depending on the phase of the moon. Helen Runcorn—who can start five rumors with one question. And of course, you've met Daphne."
Sally Anne gave Edmund a sidelong glance. "You said they weren't intimidating."
"I lied," he murmured back.
She smiled. This time, it reached her eyes.
For a moment, everything just fit.
Then Blaise leaned back with a contented sigh and said, "Well, this is new."
Tracey tilted her head, giving Sally Anne a quick, measuring look. "Not unwelcome, though."
Helen grinned. "This feels like two circles of a summoning diagram finally overlapping."
Edmund sat a bit straighter, somewhere between proud and mortified.
Daphne didn't look up from her roll. "At least we're honest. That's something."
"Better than pretending to be nice," Sally Anne quipped, easing into the rhythm like she belonged.
"Exactly," Tracey agreed, pleased.
Then Blaise stretched his legs beneath the table. "So—are we pretending not to talk about Edmund when he leaves, or getting a head start now?"
Tracey perked up. "Are we voting?"
Edmund groaned. "Please don't."
"What's he winning?" Sally Anne asked, lips twitching.
"Most dramatic," Helen offered instantly.
"Most brooding," Tracey added.
"Most likely to get a letter from a girl's mum," Blaise said.
"I'd like to see that letter," Daphne murmured, dry as toast.
"You're all terrible," Edmund muttered—but the grin pulling at his mouth gave him away.
Sally Anne leaned in slightly and whispered, "They're kind of great."
"Unfortunately," Edmund murmured back, "I know."
The conversation that followed was predictably chaotic. Tracey tried (and failed) to get Sally Anne to reveal every detail of how Edmund had asked her out, while Blaise conducted a mock interview to assess whether she'd "passed the table's emotional readiness standards." Helen, delighted by the novelty of a Gryffindor among them, asked about everything from Herbology class to the best hair potions on the Muggle market—"just for ethnographic purposes." Daphne mostly listened, occasionally steering the subject with a well-timed eye roll or pointed cough when things got too ridiculous. Edmund, to his credit, endured it all with dignified suffering. At some point, Sally Anne mentioned her older brother Simon, who had graduated the year before and was now interning with MACUSA in New York. That, somehow, spun into a ten-minute debate over whether the American magical government employed dragons, and whether Blaise's hypothetical "diplomatic mission" would end in international scandal. By the time they finished their butterbeers, the group had laughed themselves breathless more than once—and though Edmund didn't say much, he caught Daphne's eye just once, across the table. She nodded, just barely. As if to say: See? You're allowed to be happy.
Blaise eventually excused himself to find Padma Patil, whom he'd promised a few hours of Hogsmeade strolling and well-rehearsed flattery. Daphne, with a quiet flick of her scarf and a promise to owl if her study session ran long, disappeared toward the castle—apparently determined to extract precision from Isobel McDougal in Arithmancy whether the Ravenclaw was ready or not. Helen and Tracey lingered just long enough to finish their drinks before declaring a mission to "test the moral elasticity" of the Hog's Head barkeep. Edmund suspected they just wanted to feel slightly scandalous on a Saturday.
And just like that, the bench beside him felt wider. The din of the pub faded into a golden sort of hush.
Sally Anne glanced around the suddenly empty table, then at him. Her cheeks were still a little pink.
"Hi," he said again, smiling softly, the kiss from the Astronomy Tower fresh in his thoughts.
"Hi," she said back, matching his smile—quiet and sure.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The buzz of conversation at nearby tables continued, clinking glasses and floating laughter forming a pleasant, ignorable backdrop. Edmund felt the heat of the fire on one side, and the warmth of her presence on the other, like something shifting in his chest that had been tight for too long.
"You made it through the gauntlet," he said after a pause. "And survived."
"Barely," Sally Anne replied. "Tracey definitely threatened me with her eyes."
"She threatens me with her eyes," Edmund muttered. "You should consider that a compliment."
She laughed, and the sound seemed to catch in his ribcage, like a breeze he wanted to follow.
"You know," she said softly, tapping a finger on the side of her butterbeer, "I've never done this before."
"Had lunch?" he teased.
"Been... part of someone else's world like that," she clarified. "It was nice. A little terrifying. But nice."
Edmund's expression softened. "I get it. I do. I wasn't sure how it would go either."
"But?"
He looked at her fully now. "But I liked having you there. I like... having you here."
Her gaze dropped for a moment—shy, thoughtful—then lifted again.
"Me too."
They smiled together for a quiet, lingering moment—something about it soft and just theirs—before Edmund eventually broke it, glancing toward the bar with a resigned breath.
He rose and went to settle the bill, the weight of his coin pouch confirming what he already suspected: in bringing Sally Anne to the table, Daphne had ensured he'd be the last to leave—and thus responsible for paying. A classic Greengrass maneuver. He didn't doubt that she and Sally Anne had come to some understanding, but he couldn't help chuckling at her particular brand of diplomacy.
He passed two galleons and six sickles to Madam Rosmerta directly. The proprietress offered them both a small smile before turning back to the bustle of the pub.
Edmund returned to Sally Anne, offering his hand.
"Shall we?"
She took it, fingers warm in his despite the crisp air waiting just beyond the door. Together, they stepped outside, pulling their cloaks tighter against the winter chill. The breeze curled around them as they walked—quiet, close, and content.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a kind of golden blur.
They wandered slowly through Hogsmeade, past the window displays of Spintwitches and Ceridwen's Cauldron Craft, not bothering to go inside most of the shops—just walking, talking, occasionally laughing. Edmund bought her a honey-duck from Honeydukes and promptly regretted not buying two when she refused to share. She made fun of him for pouting about it, which only made him do it more.
At one point, they stopped to warm up near a glowing brazier outside an old scroll shop, the heat casting soft shadows over their faces as they talked about nothing in particular—her brother's work with MACUSA, a Defense essay Edmund had torn in half out of frustration, the absurd rumor that Madam Snelling was actually a vampire. They didn't rush. There was no reason to.
By the time they started the slow walk back to the castle, the sun had dipped low behind the mountains, painting the sky in soft winter amber. Sally Anne's gloved hand brushed his as they trudged up the path, snow crunching underfoot, and Edmund—normally so controlled—reached for it without thinking. She didn't pull away.
Hogwarts rose ahead of them, lights beginning to flicker in the windows like warm, watching eyes. And still, they walked slowly. Neither was quite ready for the day to end.
Just before they reached the courtyard steps, Edmund stopped.
"I had a really good time," he said, quietly. And he meant it more than he expected to.
Sally Anne smiled at him, eyes bright. "Me too."
He wanted to kiss her again, but not here—not with Ravenclaws filing in from the bridge and a pair of second-years throwing snow at each other near the gate. Instead, he squeezed her hand once before letting go.
"See you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," she nodded.
And with a final smile, she slipped through the doors. Edmund stood there a moment longer, watching the snow begin to fall again—light and slow and silent.
Then, cloak pulled tight against the wind, he followed her inside – heading towards the dungeons even as she started towards the grand staircase and Gryffindor Tower.
The Gryffindor common room was golden with late afternoon light, the fire crackling steadily beneath the mantelpiece. It was warm—too warm, honestly, considering the amount of cloaks and scarves strewn across every available armchair—and full of the low thrum of weekend chatter.
Sally Anne ducked in through the portrait hole, cheeks pink from the wind, and made her way over to the usual corner where Lavender, Parvati, and Sophie were curled up near the fire with mugs of something sweet and cinnamon-laced. Lavender spotted her first.
"Well," she said, drawing the word out like taffy, "look who survived lunch with the snakes."
Sally Anne rolled her eyes, but couldn't help smiling. "It wasn't that bad."
"It was revolutionary," Parvati said, mock-serious. "You, Sally Anne Perks, sitting at a table with Tracey Davis. Honestly, what's next? Millicent Bulstrode teaching yoga?"
Sophie scooted over to make room. "Come on. Spill everything."
Sally Anne flopped onto the sofa, her limbs loose with the kind of exhaustion that only came from good food and light teasing. "It was… really nice. I think they like me."
"Did Edmund introduce you?" Lavender asked, sipping from her mug.
"He did." Sally Anne leaned back and looked at the ceiling for a moment. "Very seriously, too. He made it feel—official, I guess."
From the other end of the room, a quiet groan drew their attention. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were stationed at one of the round tables near the window—Hermione buried in a book, Harry polishing his wand idly, and Ron, of course, presiding over a chessboard like a general surveying a battlefield.
"Are they still at it?" Sophie whispered.
"They never stopped," Lavender said, peering over.
"Looks like Ron got poor Harry to play another round," Parvati chuckled.
Hermione was halfway through correcting Ron's verb tense on a Transfiguration essay when she looked up. "You know, there's a lot more to magical theory than charmwork velocity ratios—"
Ron, without looking up from the board, waved her off. "And yet there's still no charm to stop me from checkmating Harry for the third time today."
"You haven't checkmated me yet," Harry muttered, trying not to look panicked as his rook was cornered by two very smug-looking bishops.
"Ten moves, Potter," Ron said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Twelve if you're stubborn about it."
Sally Anne stifled a laugh. She hadn't known Ron Weasley well—outside of the occasional group assignment—but he always seemed like he was one moment away from either a shouting match or a nap.
Now, though, he looked properly content. Focused. Maybe even brilliant.
Hermione glanced toward the girls' group and offered Sally Anne a polite nod. "Did your date go well?"
"It did," Sally Anne replied, trying not to sound too dreamy. "I met Edmund's friends. They're… they're not what I expected."
"Let me guess," Parvati said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Blaise Zabini is a secret gentleman. Tracey Davis is only mean on alternate Saturdays. And Helen Runcorn is a sweetheart wrapped around a thesaurus and Edmund Fawley is just as gentlemanly as he seems."
Sally Anne laughed. "Something like that."
Ron snorted. "Fawley plays Beater, right? He nearly took Harry's head off last match."
"That was a good shot," Harry said absently, still staring down his doomed king.
"Flattering," Sally Anne muttered.
"He's brilliant at Quidditch," Sophie added quickly. "And I heard he was top of the year in Charms last term."
"And he wears those jumpers," Lavender sighed, as if this was the real academic achievement.
Hermione looked up from her book again. "Just remember, charm isn't everything. Even if he is… unusually well-spoken."
"Spoken for, maybe," Lavender teased.
Sally Anne threw a pillow at her.
Laughter broke out across the circle, easy and full, like it had always been there. The fire crackled on, the chess pieces muttered dire threats, and somewhere in the back of Sally Anne's mind, the scent of butterbeer and plum still lingered.
And even though she was back among her Housemates—safe in her familiar tower—part of her still felt tethered to the table at the Three Broomsticks, where she'd been introduced not just as a date, but as someone who mattered.
The moment Edmund stepped back into the Slytherin common room, still flush with winter air and half-dazed from the softness of Sally Anne's parting smile, he barely had time to peel off his cloak before Flint was on him.
"Fawley," the Captain barked, emerging like a troll from the shadows near the fireplace. "Matthews is waiting. You've got ten minutes before I start hexing diagrams into your back."
Edmund blinked. "Hello to you too."
But there was no room for pleasantries. The warmth from the date had barely settled in his chest before it was snatched away, replaced with the cold calculation of drills and diagrams, broom paths and bludger timing. Flint didn't care about smiles or softness or the fact that Edmund still smelled faintly of cinnamon and butterbeer.
He cared about winning. And he cared about making Gryffindor pay.
So Edmund found himself once again hunched over a battered table in the corner of the common room, parchment spread wide between him and Harlan Matthews. The two Beaters had been paired since last year, and while Harlan was stronger, Edmund was the tactician—the one who could predict patterns three moves ahead.
"Flint wants us to try a modified twin-feint sweep," Harlan muttered, tracing a line with his wand. "We hit the left-side chaser, pull Diggory right, then you tail him into a trap curve."
Edmund frowned. "It's tight. If their beaters get in position, they'll counter it."
"Then we don't give them time."
"I'd rather not knock out half the team just to win."
Harlan grinned. "That's why Flint likes you. You're accurate. I'm just violent."
They were deep in mid-air trajectory analysis when the voice cut in:
"I need to borrow Young Edmund."
Gemma Farley.
Both boys turned. She stood framed in the entry arch, one hand on her hip, the other twirling her wand like it was just a natural extension of her irritation.
"Borrow?" Harlan echoed, deadpan.
"For scholarly purposes," Gemma said smoothly. "And possibly his soul."
Harlan looked at Edmund, then back at Gemma. "Take him. He's been insufferable since he got back."
Edmund gave him a warning glance. "Traitor."
But he stood, brushing parchment dust off his sleeves, and followed her without another word. She didn't wait—just turned on her heel, expecting him to fall into step.
They walked in silence at first, their footsteps echoing through the dungeon corridors. The deeper they went, the quieter it became. As they passed the statue of Thane the Stern, Gemma muttered the password under her breath, and a hidden doorway slid open.
The passage to the Chamber of the Society of Seaxneat was colder than the rest of the dungeons—lined with ancient wards and carved reliefs that whispered secrets in Old English if you pressed your palm to the stone.
The door at the end opened without resistance.
The chamber flickered to life with green-blue torchlight, casting shadows that moved like water. It always felt older than Hogwarts itself, a place that remembered things long buried.
Gemma stepped in first, letting the silence settle before she turned.
"You've been hiding," she said.
"I've been busy since this morning," Edmund replied. "Flint's campaign for aerial supremacy doesn't plan itself."
"You've been hiding," she repeated, firmer now. "From Daphne. From yourself. From the fact that your girlfriend wears Gryffindor red and the rest of us are watching you forget who you are."
He blinked. "I haven't—"
"You have," she said, and stepped closer. "You're not soft, Edmund. You've never been soft. You've been sharp and strange and dangerous since the day you walked into this school with a surname older than the bricks in these walls."
He stared at her, the words striking a place in his chest he didn't want to admit existed.
"I want to duel," she said finally, drawing her wand.
Edmund didn't move. "Now?"
"Now."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because you need to remember what it feels like not to apologize for being powerful."
The torches crackled.
And slowly, Edmund pulled his wand.
"No curses above second tier," he said quietly.
Gemma raised an eyebrow. "What a gentleman."
"I'm trying to avoid detention," he said, circling.
"Pity. You'd look good scrubbing cauldrons."
Their first spells met mid-air in a burst of green light.
The duel was clean, fast, and furious—stunners and counters flying through the ancient air, sparks illuminating their silhouettes in bursts. Gemma moved like a dancer. Edmund like a strategist. Their magic clashed with old precision, trained and sharpened over months of secret meetings and careful sparring.
He caught her sleeve with a jinx. She forced him to duck with a wand-snagging curse. They weren't trying to hurt. They were trying to push.
To remind.
When they finally stopped, breathless and flushed, the air in the chamber felt thinner—like something had been released.
"You're not weak," Gemma said, wand still raised. "But you're getting sentimental."
Edmund wiped his mouth, the ghost of a grin flickering there. "And you think sentiment is weakness."
"I think it's dangerous," she said. "Unless you know what to do with it."
She stepped closer, the torches painting firelight across her cheekbones. "So. Do you?"
Edmund met her eyes, steady now.
"I'm starting to."
Gemma gave a short, satisfied nod—and, for once, said nothing more.
The next days was a Sunday, and the castle was buzzing—but Edmund Fawley was too tired to care.
His head ached. His shoulders ached. His arms ached from the Beater drills Flint had made him redo—twice—after Edmund had dared to ask about blocking techniques used by the French National Team. The captain's only answer had been a grunt and a full re-run of the bat angle schematics. Edmund didn't argue. Not after yesterday's sugar-soaked reprieve.
He hadn't even had time to process the rest of the weekend—the slow, winding walk back from Honeydukes, Daphne's quiet deflections, Sally Anne's fingers brushing his glove in the snow-dusted courtyard. It all blurred together into butterbeer-sweet static and the cold bite of winter wind.
And he definitely hadn't had time to process the rumors.
Sirius Black. In Gryffindor Tower. Over Weasley's bed.
They'd filtered through the Slytherin common room like whispered hexes. At breakfast, Daphne had passed him a parchment folded three ways with only three words inside: It was true. Blaise, unusually somber, remarked that he hoped Potter wasn't sleeping in the dormitory that night. Even Harlan, who rarely flinched at much, muttered that the whole thing hit a little too close to home.
But Edmund hadn't heard the full story. Not until now.
Late in the afternoon, he dragged himself up the corridor behind the library, to a quiet stone alcove that overlooked the frost-dusted courtyard. It was their usual Sunday study spot. Sally Anne was already there—books open, cheeks flushed, her quill tapping idly against her notes.
She looked up the moment he arrived, her expression shifting instantly.
"You look terrible," she said flatly.
Edmund dropped into the seat beside her with a low groan. "You always know how to flatter."
Sally Anne didn't laugh. She just leaned in a little closer, voice lowering. "You really haven't heard?"
He blinked at her, brow furrowing. "Heard what?"
She told him.
Quietly. Clearly. No drama, no exaggeration—just the facts: how Sirius Black had found the Gryffindor passwords—Neville's list, she said—and used them to enter the dormitory. How he'd been standing over Ron's bed when the curtains were slashed. How the entire tower had been thrown into a kind of cold, watchful panic. And how, later that night, Professor McGonagall had pulled Neville out of the common room in front of everyone and banned him from Hogsmeade for the rest of the year.
Edmund sat very still as she spoke.
The sunlight from the narrow window carved sharp lines across the stone floor. Somewhere deeper in the castle, a bell tolled the hour. Sally Anne's voice dropped further as she reached the end of it.
"He didn't even know he'd dropped the parchment," she said softly. "It's just—horrible."
Edmund nodded once, slowly. A wariness crept into his limbs—not fear exactly, but a cold, familiar tension. He knew what it felt like to be blamed. To be looked at sideways. To carry something unspoken and half-explained. He wondered how Neville was holding up.
"No one's speaking to him," Sally Anne added, her gaze lowering. "Except Hermione. She's being civil."
Edmund exhaled and rubbed his temple. "I'll speak to him."
She looked over, a little startled. "You would?"
"He was kind to me. We went to Herbology Camp together summer after first year."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't explain that he knew the particular ache of guilt and scrutiny. That he knew what it was to lie awake at night wondering whether saying something earlier might have changed everything. He didn't say that his own truth—his scars, his story—still lived behind a sealed door in his mind, hidden even from the people he trusted most.
He didn't say any of that.
But Sally Anne reached across the table and took his hand anyway. And he let her.
They didn't get much studying done. A few runes were scribbled down. One or two translations were attempted. But most of the hour passed in quiet conversation, soft glances, and the kind of wordless comfort that only someone like Sally Anne could offer.
The Greenhouse was warm and damp, as always, a world apart from the brisk grey Sunday outside. Most students were in the castle, taking refuge in Common Rooms or the Library, but Edmund knew exactly where to look.
Neville Longbottom stood alone near a bed of fluttering Sopophorous beans, gently prodding the soil with a spade he clearly didn't need. The task was too repetitive to be real work. His shoulders were slumped. A half-empty bottle of de-fogging solution sat on the bench beside him, untouched.
Edmund stepped inside quietly, letting the door click shut behind him. He didn't announce himself. Just stood there for a moment, letting the warm mist soften his thoughts.
"I figured you'd be out here," he said at last.
Neville flinched slightly, then turned. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry now, and his expression—though tired—held a kind of surprise that was hard to place.
"Fawley," he said, rubbing his sleeve against his nose. "You're supposed to be terrifyingly busy these days."
"I am," Edmund replied, crossing the flagstone floor. "Something always seems to come up that requires my attention."
Neville gave a short laugh. "That makes no sense."
"It does if you've ever seen the inside of my head," Edmund muttered, then softened. "I heard what happened."
Neville's face fell. He turned back to the soil.
"Everyone did."
There was silence between them for a moment, filled only by the low hum of plant enchantments and the occasional gurgle of irrigation charms. Edmund took up a stool beside him and leaned his forearms on his knees.
"You left the list out, yeah?" he asked, gently.
Neville nodded once, sharply. "It must've been in one of the classrooms. Like a complete idiot. I was just—tired."
"Anyone could've done it."
"No," Neville said. "Not anyone. Just me."
Edmund didn't argue. Not right away. Instead, he watched the way Neville's hands stayed busy with the spade, turning over the same patch of earth again and again.
"You're not the only one who's ever messed up," he said quietly. "But you might be the only one who gets blamed for trying too hard."
Neville said nothing.
"I know what it feels like," Edmund continued, "to carry more pressure than anyone sees. To have the weight of a name, a family, a House—even when it doesn't feel like yours."
That made Neville pause. His hand stilled on the handle.
"You've never had to worry about living up to anyone," he said, not accusingly—just tired. "You've always been… composed. Brilliant."
Edmund gave a small, humorless laugh. "You ever wonder why I work so hard to be that way?"
Neville looked at him.
"Because it's armor," Edmund said. "It's what people see, so they don't see the rest. So they don't see what scares me. What I've failed at. What I still can't say out loud."
Neville's brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't press.
"And the truth is," Edmund went on, "you have more strength than most people I know. You just don't shout about it. You've survived more than most would, and still came out... kind."
Neville blinked fast. "That doesn't matter to Professor McGonagall."
"It matters to me," Edmund said.
There was a long pause.
"I miss the Preserve sometimes," Neville admitted, finally sitting down beside him. "It was quiet. And I didn't feel like a walking mistake."
"You never were," Edmund said. "You just hadn't had the right wand. The right space."
Neville looked over. "You really believe that?"
"I do."
And he meant it.
They sat there a while longer in companionable silence, watching the faint tendrils of a climbing vine shift toward the sunlight. No great speeches. No grand promises. Just a kind of understanding that had always lingered between them—distant but real.
Eventually, Edmund stood.
"Come find me later," he said. "We've got Care of Magical Creatures tomorrow, and you know Hagrid's going to ask us about flobberworm eradication."
Neville rolled his eyes. "I hate killing flobberworms."
"You hate Potions more."
Neville cracked the smallest smile. "Thanks for coming."
"You are welcome," Edmund replied, "Thanks for hearing me out."
And with that, he left the greenhouse—boots echoing softly on the stone, mind a little clearer than before.
A/N: Next chapter will be a Quidditch Chapter! And then a much quicker rest of third year.