For the first time, Ron realized just how brutal a duel between wizards could be.
Harry's duels had always been graceful.
He would weave between spells like he was dancing, killing without a trace, with only the lightest flick of a sword.
In contrast, most wizard duels lacked that elegance—flailing a wand like a stick, and if your Transfiguration wasn't up to scratch or you couldn't land a hit, the whole thing looked absurdly Gilderoy Lockhart-esque.
But the battle between Bellatrix Lestrange and Neville Longbottom—no, their fight to the death—was utterly devoid of beauty.
One was a seasoned Dark witch.
The other, trained by Harry.
Yet their fight had no finesse.
Bellatrix knew she wouldn't make it out alive. Even if she killed Neville, she wouldn't escape—not with Harry watching. He wouldn't interfere in the fight, but he certainly wouldn't let her take Neville's life. So she abandoned defense, trading blow for blow, life for life.
Spells, claws, teeth.
She used everything she had.
Neville matched her madness. His only thought was: kill her.
Half an hour later…
Both were on the ground.
Bellatrix had lost an arm. Neville had bitten a chunk out of her other hand—she couldn't even hold her wand.
Neville was no better off—covered in wounds, his abdomen and left leg twitching uncontrollably. He'd endured two Cruciatus Curses and had a chunk of flesh torn from his right arm.
Refusing to fall, he staggered to his feet, gripping his steel sword with his left hand. The effort carved two more wounds into his body.
He was heavy, dizzy with blood loss.
Every step left a bloody footprint.
"Heh…" Neville laughed, deliriously, the pain tugging tears from his eyes. "Lestrange, I won."
He raised his right hand, wand aimed at her.
His lips moved.
The "cr" of the Killing Curse stuck in his throat.
He couldn't say it.
Bellatrix couldn't even muster a sneer. Her lips twitched, as if she wanted to speak.
Neville hesitated, then lowered his wand.
Instead, he raised his sword—the one propping up his broken body—and, though swaying and unstable, his hand was steady as he plunged it into her throat.
Squelch—
He whispered, "Goodbye, Bellatrix Lestrange."
Then he pulled the sword out and slowly, carefully, decapitated her.
Neville slipped his wand into his robe, bent down, and raised Bellatrix's head high, standing on his toes to show it to Harry.
He shouted:
"Harry, happy birthday!"
Then collapsed, face-first, onto her corpse.
"Neville!" Ron's face turned pale—he grabbed at the railing to jump down.
Harry caught him by the collar. "Don't be so hasty. He's just exhausted. His breathing's steady."
"He's okay?" Ron turned back.
Harry nodded. "He knows how to protect himself."
He waved his wand. The transformed arena dissolved—crumbling back into stone and dry branches, restoring the field to its original state.
A piece of parchment flew from the Sorting Hat. A quill began to write:
"Bellatrix Lestrange, a fugitive Death Eater from Malfoy Manor, encountered Hogwarts student Neville Longbottom while fleeing. She attempted to kill Mr. Longbottom. In self-defense, he killed her.
Her head was destroyed."
Once Hedwig arrived, she carried the letter away.
Then Harry levitated Neville and brought him back to the Potter home.
The birthday banquet was ready—everyone just waiting on the two main guests.
Hermione had been styled by Yennefer. It wasn't much—just a new hairstyle, some dress adjustments, better color combinations—but she looked stunning. Tonks, beside her, kept changing her hair, trying to find the perfect color while dragging Yennefer and Hermione into her antics.
Creak— The door opened.
Harry entered, carrying Neville. Ron followed last.
Mrs. Longbottom, who had been chatting with Geralt and Sirius on the couch, paled and rushed over with surprising agility for her age. "Neville? What happened? Why is he—?"
"Neville worked hard for his birthday gift," Harry smiled. "Don't worry. He's okay—just a few injuries."
A gift?
Mrs. Longbottom frowned, clearly unhappy.
What kind of birthday gift leaves her grandson like this?
She had always liked Harry—viewed him as one of Gryffindor's rare, mature, and steady young men. A good kid.
But now…
She had brought her grandson to celebrate Harry's birthday—and this was how he repaid them?
She opened her mouth angrily.
Then Harry waved his wand.
Neville's arm lifted—he still clutched Bellatrix's hair, even in unconsciousness. The hideous, dead-eyed head swung into view.
"That's… Lestrange?" Mrs. Longbottom gasped, her voice shaking with rage. "It's her!"
She knew that ugly, twisted face all too well.
The Longbottom family had never forgotten it.
"Neville did it himself," Harry said. "I didn't help at all."
"Neville…" she stared down at her grandson tenderly. "He did this?"
Suddenly, she saw how much he had grown.
His body was stronger, fuzz creeping along his jaw, his eyes filled with the same determination his father once had.
In her mind, he was still the chubby boy hiding behind her, crying at every sound. Still the boy who forgot everything. Still the one who had written home in tears his first year, terrified he almost didn't get into Gryffindor—almost sorted into Hufflepuff.
"Neville's incredible, isn't he?" she whispered.
Harry nodded. "Of course."
"Neville's amazing," Ron chimed in.
"Thank you, Harry," she added. "If not for you…"
"Neville is Neville," Harry interrupted. "Shall we wait until he wakes up to celebrate?"
"Let him sleep." She nodded. "He needs rest. Lestrange was ruthless."
Ron muttered, "Neville was pretty ruthless too."
Everyone looked at him.
He shrank back. "I mean, as he should be. That evil woman deserved it."
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates