The Day of the Trial — Hogwarts' Final Crucible
The morning of the exams dawned cold, grey, and heavy with expectation.
Students filed into the dueling grounds behind the castle — no polished classroom, no padded arena. Instead, the Forbidden Forest loomed like a sentinel, and the broken stones of the old battlefield stretched wide beneath storm-heavy skies.
Daniel stood at the edge, his coat catching the wind like a shadow given form. His presence silenced whispers, froze even the bravest Gryffindor's smirk. Death itself had crafted this day, and the students knew it.
"You will not duel for house points," Daniel's voice cut across the field like steel scraping bone. "You will not duel to impress professors or stroke your pride."
His eyes swept the crowd — from Malfoy's pale, uncertain face, to the grim determination etched into Neville Longbottom's jaw.
"You duel today for those who can no longer stand. For the broken — like the Longbottoms in St. Mungo's, stripped of mind and dignity. For the fallen — like James and Lily Potter, slaughtered while your precious Ministry whispered politics."
A hush fell. Even the Ministry officials watching from the sidelines — stiff in their robes, their authority cracking under Daniel's stare — said nothing.
Daniel's voice softened, dangerous as a serpent's hiss:
"Cowards profit from division. 'Pureblood,' 'half-blood,' 'Muggle-born' — empty words, forged to break unity. And broken unity births corpses."
A subtle glance toward the Slytherins, but this time, the divide was smaller. Weeks under Daniel's merciless training had erased arrogance and fostered survival. Even the Malfoys kept quiet, their ambition restrained by understanding one truth: no bloodline shields you from death.
The duels began.
It wasn't a game.
Students faced illusions of real enemies — Death Eaters, Dementors, twisted shades of fear and cruelty, crafted by Daniel himself. Their spells were not mere incantations; they carried intent, purpose, fire. Shield charms shattered, curses flew, and raw, desperate skill decided fates.
Neville Longbottom stepped onto the field. His opponent — a pureblood who once sneered at weakness — hesitated. Neville didn't. His hex hit fast, precise, ruthless. Years of mockery buried beneath resolve. A roar from the crowd. Unity cracking old barriers.
Hermione Granger's duel was surgical. Her knowledge, once dismissed by many, now sliced through false bravado. Ron Weasley, battered but grinning, fought with reckless defiance, defending a younger student like a soldier protecting the last line.
But it was Harry who silenced all doubt.
His opponent? A seventh-year Slytherin — older, stronger, once proud of his family's allegiance to Voldemort.
Harry didn't hesitate.
His spells burned clean, sharp — his control unnerving for his age. Every movement, every attack whispered of brutal training, of nights spent forging steel where weakness once lived.
When he disarmed his opponent, leaving them crumpled, breathless, but alive — the field erupted.
Daniel watched, expression unreadable. Only when Harry turned, nodded once to him, did a flicker of something — approval, perhaps pride — pass across his face.
The trials ended.
Students, bruised but alive, stood shoulder to shoulder. No longer divided by house colors or bloodline lies, but bound by fire, by survival, by the quiet understanding: alone, they fall. Together, they fight.
Daniel's final words sealed the day:
"Remember the faces of the broken — those lying in hospital beds, those buried beneath stone. Your duty is to them. Betray unity, betray yourselves — and I'll remind you what true death feels like."
The Ministry officials departed, whispers trailing them like shadows. Even Dumbledore, watching from afar, stayed silent — the storm was only beginning, and Daniel had redrawn the battlefield.
.
Hogwarts — The Fallout
The corridors of the castle buzzed with tension.
Whispers curled through stone hallways like smoke — "Death walks these halls" — no longer rumor, but fact. Students moved with wary respect. The duels had shifted everything. Rivalries softened, old prejudices faltered under the weight of harsh lessons.
Daniel's shadow lingered long after class ended.
The professors? Divided.
McGonagall respected results, but her eyes narrowed, uneasy with the ruthlessness. Flitwick admired discipline but worried about innocence lost. Snape… Snape was unreadable, locked in some private war behind dark eyes.
And Dumbledore? The old wizard watched it all with the careful, maddening patience of a chess master playing the endgame.
He found Daniel at the edge of the Black Lake that evening, the sky bruised with twilight, shadows bleeding into the water.
"You've reshaped them," Dumbledore said softly, voice like aged parchment. "Children molded into soldiers. It is… efficient. But at what cost?"
Daniel didn't turn, hands clasped behind his back, coat billowing faintly as the night grew colder.
"You negotiate with murderers, Albus," Daniel replied, tone smooth, sharp. "I prepare them to survive them. Spare me the sanctimonious regret."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, but it wasn't kindness — it was calculation.
"You speak of survival, but you forget: power unchecked corrodes. They will learn to kill cleanly, yes… but will they remember why not to kill needlessly?"
Daniel finally turned, his presence eclipsing the fading light, a quiet storm coiled beneath his words.
"I do not teach them to kill for sport, Dumbledore. I teach them the weight of it. You… You send them unarmed into wolves' dens, whispering of hope while their blood spills. We are not the same."
The air between them cracked with unspoken history — regrets, failures, compromises both had bled for.
"And Neville Longbottom?" Dumbledore challenged softly. "Another child reforged in your fire?"
Daniel's lips curled — not amusement, something colder.
"A boy broken by cowardice, reborn through pain. His parents lie empty because your ministry dithers. He deserves more than sympathy, Albus. He deserves teeth."
Silence settled like ash.
Dumbledore relented, but not entirely — "He deserves choice, Daniel. Remember that."
With that, the old wizard faded into the twilight, his cloak whispering secrets to the wind.
The Offer — Neville's Moment
The next day, as trunks clattered down stairs and students prepared to leave for summer, Neville Longbottom stood at the threshold of Daniel's office — a space carved from shadows, humming with restrained power.
Neville hesitated — still the shy, round-faced boy beneath scars of growing courage.
Daniel looked up, studying him like a weapon in progress.
"Before you go, I have something for you."
Neville stepped closer, wary but determined. Daniel reached into the folds of his coat, retrieving a small, obsidian dagger — its surface rippled like frozen night, etched with runes no Hogwarts library contained.
"This," Daniel began, "was forged from the remnants of a fallen star — a blade not to spill blood carelessly, but to remind you… survival requires edge. Your family paid the price of hesitation."
Neville's hand trembled as he took it, understanding heavy in his chest.
"You are not your father's broken shell," Daniel's voice softened, cold but sincere. "You are the reckoning they didn't expect. Be the storm they fear."
For the first time, Neville met his gaze without flinching.
"I won't disappoint you… sir."
Daniel's expression barely shifted — the faintest hint of approval ghosting his features.
"See that you don't, Longbottom. Next year, the real war begins."