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"Neville, I know you're frustrated. Failure always makes people doubt themselves," Richie said smoothly. "But failure doesn't happen to make you quit. It happens to tell you to try again."
Neville kept his head down, his fingers unconsciously twisting the fabric of his robes. Even in the quiet, empty classroom, his voice was barely a whisper.
"But I just can't do it. What if I'm actually not a wizard?"
"What if the acceptance letter was delivered to the wrong person? What if the Sorting Hat made a mistake, and that's the only reason I'm here?"
Richie patted him on the shoulder. He didn't argue with him or aggressively shut him down. Instead, he looked at Neville and Hermione and asked in a gentle, conversational tone, "Speaking of acceptance letters, do you guys remember what it was like when you got yours?"
Neville blinked, momentarily pulled out of his spiral.
Richie continued. "I remember getting mine on a really sunny morning. I was sitting at my desk when an owl tapped on my window with the letter."
"At first, I thought it was incredibly weird. Why was an owl delivering mail? Did the post office run out of money to pay the mailmen? But the second I opened the window and saw the Hogwarts crest, I understood..."
"My entire world was about to change completely."
"I was thrilled. Magic—this amazing, beautiful thing—actually existed, and I was about to step into that world. Sure, I was anxious too. It was a completely unknown world. I knew I'd run into all kinds of obstacles. But honestly? I love that."
"Find the problem, solve the problem, and level up. That's what makes me happy."
Richie smiled. "What about you, Hermione?"
Hermione lifted her chin, her eyes bright. "I was helping out at my parents' dental clinic. The owl showing up completely terrified us. But we spotted the letter tied to its leg."
"At first, my dad thought it was an elaborate prank and completely brushed it off. But I realized that all those weird things that used to happen around me... that was magic! So I believed Hogwarts was real."
"And I knew I had to come here. I needed to learn magic, learn how to control myself, and then... protect myself and my family."
#### The Dandelion Garden
Richie nodded in agreement, then shifted his gaze back. "How about you, Neville?"
Seeing them both looking at him, Neville slowly lifted his head.
"The day I got my letter..."
His eyes glazed over slightly as the memory played out in his mind.
He had gotten his in the morning, too. He was sleeping in his attic bedroom when the owl practically dive-bombed through the round window like a meteor, crashing right into him.
When he realized it was the Hogwarts letter he'd been desperately waiting for, he completely forgot about his bruised stomach. He ran barefoot out into the garden, clutching the parchment, looking for his grandmother who was tending the plants.
"Gran, I got my Hogwarts letter!"
The sun was shining. The wind blew, scattering dandelion seeds across the garden. And his grandmother, who almost never smiled, finally gave him a small, genuine smile that day.
"Yeah... that was the happiest day of my life." Neville's expression softened considerably, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
Right then, Richie's voice cut through—warm, steady, and undeniably firm.
"The Trace has been on you since the day you were born. The owl, the letter, the Sorting Hat sitting on your head and shouting Gryffindor! for the entire Great Hall to hear—none of that was a mistake or an accident. It happened because you are exactly who you're supposed to be."
"Failing a spell doesn't change who you fundamentally are, and it definitely shouldn't be your excuse to give up."
Hermione chimed in quietly, dropping her usual bossy tone. "He's right. I memorized The Standard Book of Spells a hundred times before coming here, and the first time I tried to cast the Wand-Lighting Charm on the Hogwarts Express, I still almost messed it up."
"But I didn't quit. And look at me now—I can cast plenty of spells perfectly."
The clumsy but genuinely heartwarming comfort made Neville press his lips together tightly.
Richie took Neville's wand from Hermione and handed it back to him.
"Neville, don't forget the absolute joy you felt when you held that letter. Don't forget the thrill of holding a wand for the first time."
"You aren't learning magic to prove something to anyone else. You're doing it for that kid laughing in the dandelion garden."
Richie's words echoed in Neville's ears. His breathing slowly steadied.
"Gran always said... Longbottoms are never cowards," Neville muttered.
Suddenly, he looked up. The tears in his eyes were entirely replaced by pure, unfiltered determination.
"You're right, Richie."
"I am a wizard. I have to believe in myself!"
"I'm here because this is what my Gran always hoped for. And it's what I hoped for!"
"I am not a Squib! I am a wizard!"
He gripped his wand tightly and stared dead at the quill on the desk.
Believe in yourself... believe in yourself...
His gaze sharpened into something fierce. Under Richie and Hermione's expectant eyes, Neville raised his wand, gave his wrist a fluid flick, and the incantation rolled confidently off his tongue:
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
Finally, the quill trembled. It lifted off the wood and slowly floated into the air, casting a flickering shadow in the torchlight.
Neville collapsed back into his chair as if all his strength had been drained. Watching the quill gently drift back down into his lap, he let out a cry that was half-sob, half-laugh. It was the sound of a massive, crushing weight finally being lifted.
"I... I did it!"
Richie and Hermione immediately broke into wild applause.
The bright moon hung high in the sky, yet it did nothing to dispel the chilling, desolate loneliness.
A forgotten tower in a barren Austrian valley.
It hid countless untold secrets.
The stone walls inside the tower were completely covered in manic, sprawling graffiti:
Free will is a delusional cage. True control is making the prey believe the cage door never existed.
The soul is not a singular entity; it is a projection of existence! The soul splinters, but the existence remains!
To enslave a man, you must first teach him to despise himself. When the ego kneels in the dirt, the chains become salvation.
Cough, cough.
An old man in thin, ragged clothes held a piece of chalk, dragging himself up the spiral stone stairs as he aggressively scrawled phrase after phrase.
The manic graffiti was entirely his doing.
Suddenly, a faint sound echoed in the silence—like a heartstring violently snapping in his mind.
The old man broke into a brutal coughing fit, leaning heavily against the wall as if he was about to hack up his own heart.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally caught his breath. Exhausted, he slumped against the stone steps and looked down at his open palm.
His hands were impossibly soft and youthful, completely at odds with his withered, elderly appearance. But more bizarrely, his palm was covered in dense clusters of tiny black dots!
As he watched, one of the tiny black dots slowly dissolved and vanished into his skin.
The old man traced the spot where the dot had disappeared, a bizarre, twisted smile creeping onto his face.
"Oh..."
"Hehehe..."
"Fascinating. Truly fascinating..."
Before long, the old man picked up his chalk and resumed his frantic scribbling on the tower walls.