Chapter 32: The Injustice of Fate

“Do you think I wanted this?” Harry grabbed his hand in return. “Do you think I wanted to be born without parents, to walk into the magical world and be gawked at like some circus monkey?”

“Do you think a child who just awakened magic should be bound to a murderous Dark Lord, where everywhere you go, people remind you—you’re not yourself, you’re the Boy Who Lived, the one who defeated Voldemort?” Harry even grabbed Neville’s collar. “Wearing this ridiculous title of Savior, I’ve lived like Voldemort’s own son!”

“I finally managed to enjoy a quiet school life, make some friends.” Harry slowly calmed down and released his grip. “But then came wave after wave of absurd pressure—my surname, my past, my inexplicable fame in the magical world. These things pushed me, lifted me to a place I never wanted to stand.”

“I just wanted to be ordinary, like any other eleven-year-old—make good friends at school, tease the teachers a little.” Harry let go with both hands, his voice weary. “Not to keep discovering I’m the descendant of one person, then the successor of another.”

“What do you think, Harry?” Neville also released his grip on Harry’s collar. “Hagrid’s a clumsy half-giant, Snape’s a stingy potions master, Quirrell’s a coward?”

“Hagrid put on such a convincing act for you, didn’t he? You had to go to Gringotts on your birthday, didn’t you? Couldn’t wait a single day earlier?” Neville said. “I bet he even showed you a glimpse of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Harry said nothing, only nodded.

“And yet this clumsy half-giant has a habit of clipping newspaper articles?” Neville shook his head, sneering. “And he just happened to cut out a tiny report about a bank robbery—just so he could show it to you one day?”

“I even suspect Quirrell himself robbed the bank that day—hired reporters in advance, then started the robbery.”

“I spent so many rock cakes just to pry out the name Nicholas Flamel—no records anywhere. So I had Hermione tell you. Guess what?” Neville gave a bitter laugh. “In the blink of an eye, you knew exactly how old he was and what he’d done everywhere!”

“I asked Professor Binns,” Harry said.

“Do you think I didn’t ask?” Neville snapped. “He told me he’d cover it next year, to be patient. No! Not! To! Be! Patient!”

“Finally learned who Nicholas Flamel was, finally learned the thing hidden below was the Philosopher’s Stone—even though no one in this school had any reason to steal it, Dumbledore still went out of his way to warn that it was hidden at the end of the third-floor corridor.” Neville said. “Then we went to the end of the third-floor corridor—and how did we get past Fluffy? Everyone knows Fluffy is Hagrid’s test—either use the Devil’s Snare, or some other method.”

“Snape asked you on the first day: daffodils and wormwood—what’s the point? What’s the point? Of course to get past Fluffy!” he continued. “Fine, Devil’s Snare is hard to brew. Tell me—what did you see in the mirror?”

“I saw myself in sixth year, brewing the Devil’s Snare with a technique different from the book.” Harry admitted. “I saw I’d improved the recipe.”

“Isn’t that strange? Have you ever wondered who put that mirror there?” Neville said. “It was Dumbledore! I’ve seen him standing in front of it more than once, holding wool socks. And when was the mirror taken away? Right after you mastered the Devil’s Snare!”

Harry couldn’t help but start doubting—it did seem too convenient.

“Forget the Devil’s Snare for a moment—what Christmas gift did Hagrid give you? A flute!” Neville complained. “He was blatantly hinting that music was the way past Fluffy!”

“What?” Harry was startled—he’d always thought it was an owl whistle.

“I really sang it a lullaby. I’d try anything.” Neville sighed. “When you’re desperate, the answer suddenly appears in your mind. This isn’t just Dumbledore’s favoritism—it’s fate’s favoritism.”

Harry swore the lullaby was just something he’d blurted out.

“And Quirrell? On Halloween night, he walked in, said there was a troll, then fainted. A teacher of Defense Against the Dark Arts who can’t even handle a troll? Do you think that’s possible?” Neville asked. “Do you know what I heard in the third-floor corridor?”

“The first time, Snape said Harry went looking for the troll, and they rushed downstairs.” Neville said. “After they dealt with your business, they came back to the door. Snape asked Quirrell what he wanted. Quirrell said he wanted to check again. Snape said it wasn’t necessary.”

“The second time they came to the third floor, I was hiding behind the door, right in front of Fluffy’s three mouths.” Neville shook his head. “Otherwise, how could I have heard that conversation?”

“What do you mean?” Harry was confused.

“If I hadn’t asked you to find Hermione, wouldn’t you have grown suspicious and gone to check the third floor yourself?” Neville pointed at himself. “Then they could start their performance—‘Who wants the stone? Who’s trying to stop whom?’ But the one trying to steal the stone hears Harry’s in the dungeons and bolts—why keep acting? I certainly don’t have the right to watch this play.”

“After taking care of the heroic Harry, the two walked up to the third floor. Quirrell thought, since he was here, he might as well check if Harry had slipped in. Snape said it wasn’t necessary—he said that because he knew you were eating in the common room. Snape knows you well.”

“To find out what play they were putting on for you, I followed Quirrell all day during the Quidditch match. Their act never started early or late—it waited until you passed by.” Neville said. “And you? You were chatting with Ron about Quidditch, never even looked at them!”

“So they specifically chose nights when you were out to perform it again for you. And they even set up wizard chess—specifically wizard chess, the one thing Ron excels at.” Neville pointed at Ron. “If your best friend weren’t Ron, would it still have been wizard chess?”

“I think Snape’s part might have just been coincidence.” Harry weakly defended himself—he clearly remembered Dumbledore asking him, “Who is your best friend?” and even reminding him, “This school year is almost over.” He hadn’t meant for me to study hard—he meant to find the Stone soon.

“Coincidence? If they really had some conspiracy,” Neville pointed to the courtyard, “Hagrid should’ve told Dumbledore, and Dumbledore should’ve stopped it. At the very least, if he truly wanted to hide the Stone, couldn’t he have moved it? No! The Stone stayed right where it was—in the backyard of Quirrell and Snape’s house.”

“You’ve never broken a single rule, so you never had to go into the Forbidden Forest.” Neville grew agitated again. “Do you believe that if Dumbledore found even one excuse to punish you, he’d send you straight to the Forbidden Forest?”

“Zhang Qiu took you in once—maybe you really didn’t notice.” Neville said. “Because by then, Hagrid would’ve taken you there, and they’d already set up the scene.”

“That’s what disgusted me most—I followed Hagrid and saw the corpse of a unicorn.” Neville’s face twisted. “I scoured every source I could find, and only managed to dig up a scrap of information outside the flood of wandlore books: unicorn blood grants life to the cursed, and combined with the Philosopher’s Stone, it brings back the dead.”

“I bet if it were you, that information would’ve been handed to you Pobujidai ?” Neville mocked.

“Resurrection? So Voldemort…”

“Do you really think he’ll come back?” Neville sneered. “It’s just Dumbledore fooling children—giving you a perfect reason to stop anyone from stealing the Stone. But I bet that once you’ve passed every single trial, you’ll suddenly find someone waiting for you at the end—not Snape, not Quirrell.”

“Given the pattern of replacing the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher every year,” Neville shook his head slightly, “it’ll be Quirrell—pretending to be Voldemort’s top disciple, trying to resurrect him.”

“But what if it’s real?” Harry pressed urgently. “What if they really plan to resurrect Voldemort?”

“Then it’s even more disgusting!” Neville shouted. “I’d rather believe Dumbledore isn’t that kind of man—not the kind who lets Death Eaters into the school just to play at raising a hero; not the kind who entrusts the crucial task of stopping Voldemort’s resurrection to an eleven-year-old who just finished a game!”

“Then, then.” Harry was shaken by his logic. “It’s just a simple game, right?”

“Yes. A simple game.” Neville said. “A game where you casually attend school, all clues automatically come to you, and you pass everything by the end of the year. Dumbledore even adjusted the House Cup scores just so you could be the hero.”

“But for me, this was a chance to prove myself.” Neville said. “What fate denied me, I’ll earn back myself.”

“Keep eating your Chocolate Frogs right here.” Neville tapped his chest. “And I? I’m going to fight fate—and win, right before your eyes.”