Ron panted on the ground of the courtyard. "How the heck, Ben!" he yelled, frustration and exhaustion mixing in his voice.

  “Again,” I said evenly, as though we hadn’t already repeated the exercise twenty times.

  With a fierce determination in his eyes, Ron struggled to his feet. Perhaps it was his competitive spirit or something else, but either way, he had a fire within him, rare for one so young.

  He assumed a nearly perfect form, something he’d achieved shockingly fast. His talent is a thing to envy. If only I were so fortunate... Let’s just say that without my longevity, I’d never have learned the basics of swordsmanship myself.

  But I am no master of the blade. I know the forms and techniques, but my movements are too basic, too stiff, compared to the fluid, effortless way Godric Gryffindor once wielded a sword. To a beginner, I might look skilled, but any true swordsman would see through it in an instant. I knew it was only a matter of time before Ron surpassed me, as anyone could with enough practice and perseverance.

  “Haha!” Ron shouted, charging forward with a determined roar that gave away his intent. If he’d stayed quiet, he might have taken advantage of my momentary distraction, but his inexperience got the better of him. I kept my position, deflecting his attack with a simple parry—just a slight shift of the handle, angling my blade to catch his with the flat. His own momentum caused him to overextend, stumbling forward. With a fluid motion, I tapped him on the back with my wooden sword.

  “Bloody bollocks!” Ron cursed, livid.

  “You’re doing great,” I assured him.

  He grumbled. “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “I’m just more familiar with the forms,” I told him. “Think of it like playing chess for the first time against someone who’s been playing for years. With time, it’ll be you one-sidedly beating me.” Memories of a long-lost era, of a young Gryffindor perfecting his craft, surfaced for a fleeting moment before fading.

  Ron perked up at the encouragement. “Alright, let’s go again!”

  “No, we should take a break here. Climbing a mountain doesn’t happen in a single step.”

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  “Now that you mention it, I’m starving. I could eat half a hog,” Ron said, rubbing his stomach.

  I chuckled. “Let’s head to lunch then. We’ll grab a seat for everyone.”

  As we made our way, I remembered Hermione’s initial reaction. “Boys and their stick games,” she had scoffed when we’d started training, dismissing it as chaotic play. But there is grace in swordplay; it’s much like a dance—a dance I’ve mastered, if only in response to souls who, in their final moments, wanted a partner in one last duel or waltz. The age of grand balls and duels is mostly gone now, and with it, those rare requests.

  Draco, too, had attempted a match with Ron, only to be swiftly defeated. “Figured you’d be good at such a ruffian’s sport, Weasley!” he’d snapped, his frustration clear.

  “It’s alright, Draco,” I reassured him afterward. “Swordsmanship isn’t everyone’s strength. There are plenty of skills better suited to you that the rest of us don’t excel in.”

  Despite his harsh words, Draco had left more dejected than angry.

  Ron, for his part, wasn’t shaken by Draco’s comments. He’d told me later, “It’s hard to hold it against him when you know what he’s going through.” I’ve often wondered why people hide their pain from each other. With understanding, there is always room for forgiveness.

  Our training wasn’t only about swordsmanship, though. I was preparing Ron for something greater: to inherit what Gryffindor himself left behind. The great wizard bequeathed his riches to Hogwarts, but he wanted his true successor to be of his own bloodline.

  When we arrived in the dining hall, we found an empty table on the far left and dug into the feast that appeared. We were savoring lamb chops when the rest of the group joined us.

  “Did you have fun with your toys?” Hermione teased, glancing disapprovingly at the wooden swords I’d carved with the Diffindo charm.

  “We made progress,” I replied, not rising to her bait.

  She wrinkled her nose but thankfully made no further comment.

  Neville arrived last, looking drained and clearly weighed down by another rough Potions class. I’d already saved him from several mishaps, but Snape’s relentless criticism was taking its toll.

  “I don’t think I’m cut out to be a wizard,” Neville muttered.

  “Listen closely, Neville. You must first believe in yourself. Never let a fool like Snape shake your confidence.”

  “But I’m terrible at casting spells, and everything I do in Potions ends in catastrophe,” he said, sounding defeated.

  “Neville, remember what I told you about Potions class? It’s structured poorly. Let’s focus on the basics, starting with what you’re already good at—Herbology. Understanding the magical effects of herbs and how they interact with each other will help you far more than any of Snape’s critiques.” I made a mental note to focus on these fundamentals in Neville’s private lessons. He had the makings of a remarkable alchemist if he’d only believe it. Snape, so blinded by his own insecurities, couldn’t see beyond the surface.

  I’m determined to help Neville grow into a wizard of his own standing. He’s even shown a glimmer of talent with the sword, though not enough to reach mastery in his lifetime. Still, he could become as adept, as I am.

  As for Hermione and Draco...

  If only I were so fortunate... Let's just say it took me much longer and had I not been eternal I'd never have succeeded.

  y is it that humans hide their pain from one another? When one understands the truth of a situation then there is almost always room for forgiveness.