Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout, after finishing the repairs to the castle's magical defenses damaged by Voldemort, immediately rushed toward the Quidditch pitch.
They were deeply worried about Neville.
Flitwick wanted to follow, but his short legs couldn't keep up. Despite his efforts, he couldn't match the pace of a cat and a woman. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, the other two professors had already pulled far ahead. He turned back, deciding instead to help Dumbledore check on the rest of the students.
When they arrived, Neville was already screaming, "Cruciatus!"
The wind hadn't died down; it carried frost and that terrifying curse to their ears.
It startled them—and they quickened their steps.
The Quidditch pitch was in ruins.
Neville hadn't actually cast the curse. What he was doing was far more primitive and visceral. He was using his fists—like a wild animal—to vent everything he had suppressed within.
Neither of the professors knew how to respond.
Compared to what Neville and the Longbottom family had endured, this method of revenge—this release—could almost be called gentle.
"Neville is a good child," McGonagall murmured, turning her gaze away from the destruction.
It was hard to imagine how such devastation had occurred in just a few minutes.
Sprout nodded gravely. "I'm glad the knowledge I taught him in the greenhouses was able to help."
They watched quietly.
Softly, silently witnessing Neville's near-mad outburst.
Until—
Crack. After who knew how many punches, Crouch's body broke in half, the lower half slamming into the ground.
He died.
A twisted expression of pain, resentment, and regret frozen on his face.
Neville didn't notice.
He continued swinging, fists lashing the air, moved by instinct alone.
It was sheer will that had allowed him to fight Crouch.
To walk through the storm.
To remain standing in a body that had bled so much, wounds now too dry to even bleed.
But he had reached his limit.
He couldn't even register the world around him.
The two professors quickly realized this.
"Neville, Crouch is dead. He's already dead." McGonagall waved her wand, turning broken stones into soft spongey ribbons that gently wrapped around Neville's hands.
His body still twitched, shoulders hunched as though to throw more punches.
Sprout frowned slightly. "A large dose of henbane."
"Thank goodness he took an antidote beforehand. Still, given the amount he inhaled, it won't do much."
She paused, examined him closely.
"His condition is bad—mostly magical injuries. Thankfully, nothing fatal."
A flick of her wand summoned a piece of dittany from her pocket. It floated over, diligently applying itself to every wound on Neville's body.
Then she pulled out a small snuffbox.
Opening it, she waved it under Neville's nose twice.
A rare but highly effective powdered potion—absorbed via scent.
Neville stilled.
"Pomona, take Neville to Poppy." McGonagall conjured a soft stretcher.
Sprout glanced at the mangled body hanging from the tree and the crumpled half on the ground, then nodded. She lifted Neville gently with a levitation spell and took him toward the castle.
McGonagall stayed behind to clean the pitch, retrieving Neville's wand, the steel sword, and the unused seeds.
Finally, she turned to Crouch's corpse.
Her eyes were full of disgust.
A filthy thing.
If it were up to her, she'd burn it into ash. Such filth didn't deserve to remain.
But she conjured a wooden box and carefully stored the body inside.
In the end, it was Neville's trophy. What to do with it would be his choice.
A tall, thin adult man now fit easily inside a box smaller than McGonagall's Animagus form.
After finishing, she looked around the battlefield with a complicated expression.
The Quidditch pitch was gone. It needed rebuilding. So did parts of the castle—even though the magical wards were repaired, the walls needed restoring, with magically infused materials.
Disastrous.
Their previously healthy budget was about to be stretched thin.
Back in Hogwarts—
The atmosphere was calm—despite the explosions.
The blast had occurred near the abandoned classrooms on the fourth floor, far from any active classes. No students were injured.
And after the past years, the prefects were seasoned.
After the professors left, the Slytherin and Ravenclaw prefects swiftly organized evacuations.
Hufflepuff and Gryffindor prefects had been in the greenhouses and reacted slower.
Still, the Hufflepuffs were obedient—even scared, they huddled quietly in classrooms.
The Gryffindors, however, were bold—not frightened but curious about what was happening outside.
In the infirmary—
Sprout delivered Neville. After Madam Pomfrey confirmed he wasn't in danger, Sprout rushed off to check on her house's students.
Except Slytherin.
Their head of house never showed care for them.
Not that the Slytherins minded. They were proud and mature—they didn't need their head of house to coddle them like the others.
McGonagall checked on Neville, confirmed the Gryffindors were safe, then hurried to the headmaster's office.
As deputy headmistress, this was her duty.
She spoke the password and entered.
The office was empty.
She blinked, turned to the portraits on the wall. "Where is Headmaster Dumbledore?"
Godric Gryffindor answered: "He went out."
McGonagall frowned.
At such a critical time? Was he chasing the Dark Lord?
"There's a goblin rebellion—at least a hundred strong," Godric explained. "They're rioting at Gringotts. Dumbledore went to assist the Ministry."
McGonagall's jaw dropped, stunned.
Another goblin uprising?
And with such numbers?
She sighed and returned to her office. She understood—without Dumbledore, the Ministry likely couldn't handle it.
She began drafting the cost estimate for Hogwarts repairs.
Hopefully, the Board of Governors would fund it without hesitation.
If not—
She'd have to let Harry go.
Meanwhile, in another world—
Eredin's lieutenant Imlerith listened to two scouts' reports.
They were detailed and matched what the Weavers had said—three people: two women, one man. A Witcher and a sorceress.
The scouts had triggered a trap and were forced to retreat without gathering more.
Imlerith's eyes gleamed.
It was just as Lord Eredin had said.
The Witcher was cautious and annoying—but not powerful.
He stood, surveying his company: two Navigators, fourteen Riders, and himself. Seventeen total.
They had killed two of the Crone Sisters and held their own.
But—
Seventeen against three.
He couldn't imagine losing.
He studied a map of Mudback Marsh.
"Prepare for a night attack," he finally said.
He didn't think such caution was necessary—but Eredin's orders couldn't be ignored.
Night fell.
In Mudback Marsh—
Harry and the others had just finished dinner.
"This ham is amazing," Ciri sighed contentedly. "So are these meatballs."
Hermione stirred tea with her wand.
"I'm glad you liked it," she said gently. "Harry rarely comments on food, and I rarely get to use food spells at school—I was afraid I wouldn't do it well."
Ciri licked her pudding bowl. "Hermione, you don't have to worry at all."
"Is there more pudding? I'd love another—"
Harry cut in, "Ciri, I don't think you should eat too much."
Hermione looked at him, confused.
They had plenty of food—and Ciri could hop between worlds. Why would Harry say that?
Ciri pouted, still clutching her plate.
"Last night, Wild Hunt scouts came," Harry explained. "We misled them."
"Nothing happened during the day."
"But they might strike tonight."
"Eating too much will slow you down."
Ciri sighed and put down her plate. "Fine. But I'll make up for it later."
She skipped dessert, sipping more tea.
After dinner, they washed and went to bed.
Even the fireplace was extinguished—making it easier to sense temperature shifts.
At midnight—
Two portals opened.
Two groups of Wild Hunt riders emerged, followed by a sudden, howling blizzard. Ice spread across the marsh.
Temperatures plummeted.
Imlerith rode through last.
Inside the hut—
Harry snapped awake.
He'd felt the chill. That's why he doused the fire—to detect changes faster.
He shook Hermione and Ciri awake.
Then grabbed their wrists—Apparated.
Just over a minute later—
Boom!
A giant ice sphere crashed through the hut wall.