Chapter 31

“What did you see in the Forbidden Forest?” Neville asked urgently as soon as he woke up.

“I never went into the Forbidden Forest,” Harry lied instinctively; he felt no need to mention this Muggle-style cold war to Neville now.

“No, no,” he shook his head, “you saw something—and that’s the crucial piece of information. I’m only missing one vital proof; otherwise, my reasoning is just castles in the air.”

“What reasoning?” Harry asked curiously.

“If you won’t tell me what you saw in the Forbidden Forest, I won’t tell you my theory,” Neville said slyly. “It might affect your exam results.”

“There’s no secret to uncover,” Harry said, though his curiosity burned inside him. “I’ll still get excellent grades.”

Neville turned away, and Harry wondered—how did Neville know he’d been to the Forbidden Forest?

Harry suddenly remembered: that night he entered the Forbidden Forest, Hermione had slipped a note under his pillow. But a Ravenclaw girl sneaking into Gryffindor boys’ dormitory was nearly impossible—so she must have asked Neville, since Ron was either beside him or under Pansy’s watch.

Harry believed Neville was also chasing some secret, perhaps connected to the Philosopher’s Stone. But he didn’t think it had anything to do with his own Forbidden Forest experience—no matter how he thought about it, the Stone couldn’t possibly relate to a cold war.

For many days after, Harry followed his own study plan, reviewing thoroughly; his time and knowledge allowed him to calmly go over everything and reinforce key exam points. Ron, however, was far less optimistic—Harry had to guess and mark out key topics for him so his revision wouldn’t fall behind.

Neville, meanwhile, kept disappearing every other day, just like Harry had when obsessed with the Deathly Hallows. Harry couldn’t imagine how Neville managed to study while being so distracted. But life went on, and whatever lay behind the trapdoor remained safely guarded beneath the three-headed dog’s feet.

Exam day was unbearably hot. All students crammed into a large exam hall, answering questions with uncheatable quills. After the theory exam came the practical—many students groaned in despair.

Harry was fully prepared. Ron, lucky to have had his study scope narrowed by Harry’s predictions, did well: Transfiguration tested turning a mouse into a snuffbox. Ron’s usual unreliable mouse-transfiguration charm worked perfectly—he produced a snuffbox with no extra tails or ears. Harry cleverly transfigured one matching the style he’d seen at Tang Dun; the professors unanimously deemed it exquisite.

Charms tested a tap-dance spell on a pineapple—an odd choice, but Harry succeeded anyway. Potions’ Forgetfulness Potion was unexpectedly beyond scope, but the potion itself was simple.

Only after finishing History of Magic did Harry and Ron lazily sunbathe outside for the afternoon, then slowly stroll back to their dormitory, ready to enjoy the most carefree week before exam results came out.

“Harry,” they said, laughing, as they reached the dormitory door—only to find Neville standing there, face grim, staring fixedly at him.

“I need you to brew me a Sleeping Draught. Right now,” he said with absolute authority. “I’ve already prepared the ingredients.”

“That’s impossible—I mean, that’s at least sixth-year material,” Harry exclaimed. “Do you really think knowing the recipe and sequence is enough to make it?”

“Snape asked you the recipe for the Sleeping Draught first,” Neville said. “He believes you can brew it.”

“Why? If you’re trying to put the three-headed dog to sleep,” Harry said, dreading the idea, “you’d be better off singing it a lullaby than having me brew the potion.”

Neville fell silent.

“Besides, the book’s instructions for the Sleeping Draught are extremely difficult, and the success rate is low,” Harry continued. “I’d have to precisely extract the juice from a Sleepy Bean within seconds, stir counterclockwise for nearly half an hour until the potion changes color—”

“Do you have any improvement ideas? Or have you seen a modified method in any book?” Neville interrupted.

“No. I’m not obsessed with the Sleeping Draught. Maybe by sixth year—”

“I’ll succeed without your help,” Neville cut him off again. “I’ll stop him myself.”

Harry and Ron exchanged glances; only after Neville left did they whisper among themselves.

“Why is Neville so obsessed with the Philosopher’s Stone? Let whoever wants it take it,” Ron grumbled.

“Maybe we should ask Hermione. She probably understands Neville better.”

“This is all Dumbledore’s test,” Hermione told the Boy Who Lived and his friends in the Gryffindor common room.

“If Dumbledore truly wanted to hide something, he could’ve placed it in his office and told no one—then the Philosopher’s Stone could never be stolen,” she said. “Think back: from his first day’s mention of ‘terrible deaths,’ to Hagrid’s slips of the tongue, even Snape and Quirrell hinting they want to steal the Stone—what does this mean? It means the professors are deliberately trying to lure us students into stealing the Stone.”

Harry now understood: yes, Snape and Quirrell had no real motive to steal the Stone—they were clearly acting to provoke the students’ sense of justice.

“Think about it: each professor designed a trial for the Stone, requiring courage, wisdom, and knowledge learned in class to pass,” she grinned, her large front teeth gleaming. “This isn’t about ‘terrible deaths’—it’s an extra practical exam question.”

“I bet the student who retrieves the Stone gets at least fifty points. Aren’t we exactly forty points short of the House Cup?” Hermione said.

“This is still just speculation,” Harry remained puzzled. “Even if Snape and Quirrell want the Stone, let them take it—why must we stop them?”

“Maybe it’s about justice,” Hermione’s voice lacked conviction.

“Who knows if they just need money for shampoo or hair growth potion and plan to borrow the Stone briefly?” Harry shrugged. “Denouncing crimes that haven’t even happened isn’t justice.”

“Anyway,” Hermione abruptly ended the topic, “Dumbledore leaves for the Wizengamot tomorrow. If we’re going to guard the Stone, it’s tomorrow. I and Neville will be ready.”

Harry returned to the dormitory, disappointed. Ron still looked eager. “Hey Harry, isn’t this cool? Exploring the professors’ traps, solving puzzles with courage and wit, then earning rewards and glory!”

“Unless someone shot me in the head,” Harry said. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous? Walking into a trap, convinced you can handle everything, thinking it’s just a little test? You might barely survive—or you might really die horribly!”

“Think about how the school history will record you,” Harry teased. “The Headmaster warned, ‘Don’t enter that room or you’ll die horribly.’ Weasley thought he’d enjoy dying horribly—and leapt straight into the three-headed dog’s mouth!”

“What about Neville?” Ron asked. “What if he really goes?”

“Neville isn’t stupid,” Harry wasn’t worried. “If he can’t get past the three-headed dog, he’ll come back.”

Until noon the next day, Harry saw Neville return to the dormitory—no missing limbs, no injuries—and cheerfully greeted him.

“You really won’t help me brew the potion?” Neville asked.

“You really won’t try a lullaby?” Harry retorted.

Neville suddenly stood up.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, chocolate frog in his mouth, muffled.

“I’m going alone.”

“What are you thinking? First, you can’t get past the three-headed dog. Even if you slip past, there are all those bizarre trials ahead—maybe even a duel with Snape,” Harry swallowed the chocolate, trying to reason with him.

“Yeah, you don’t need to risk your life over some unproven guess,” Ron said, shuddering at the thought of Snape.

“When I first heard that prophecy, I knew it was fate,” Neville turned to Harry, staring fixedly until Harry felt uneasy. “You’re the Boy Who Lived. I’m just your friend, classmate, even your follower. Yet I, too, share a blood feud with Voldemort.”

“Is this fate? Fate makes one child suddenly become the Boy Who Lived without doing anything; makes another, who watched his parents tortured into madness, grow quiet and withdrawn, spending his whole life merely admiring the Boy Who Lived’s glory—yet he, too, was named in that prophecy!” Neville’s voice rose, growing visibly agitated.

“When Li Ao came to my house, I thought I had my answer. I thought I could work hard, train relentlessly, achieve just as much as you,” Neville stepped forward, standing before Harry. “But what did I see? When I came to Hogwarts, when I thought I’d found a chance to prove myself, when I investigated the Stone despite every obstacle—what did I see?”

Neville grabbed Harry’s collar.

“I only saw Dumbledore’s favoritism!” he roared.