Hermione looked thoroughly furious.
The points they had just earned hadn’t even had time to warm up before being snatched right back away!
“Is that boy a complete idiot?
I *just* earned those points, and from Professor Snape of all people!
Can’t he use that barren brain of his to think about how incredibly difficult that was?” Hermione was as heartbroken as she was angry, unconsciously using the very phrases Snape so frequently threw around.
Silan could only shrug helplessly.
Ron was pretty much exactly like this in his early days.
While he wasn’t malicious at heart, he was still a total child.
He had older brothers above him and a younger sister below him.
He wasn’t the pampered youngest son, nor was he the highly anticipated eldest.
Caught squarely in the middle, even his wand–something deeply sacred and personal to a wizard–was a hand-me-down from his brothers.
It was only natural that he carried a bit of an inferiority complex.
And an excess of low self-esteem, much like an excess of arrogance, was a poison fully capable of destroying a person.
Even by the time class dismissed, Hermione was still harboring a deep sense of resentment.
“I truly don’t understand!
Why does that boy dislike you so intensely?” “Probably because I’m a Slytherin,” Silan replied.
“Can’t that blockhead see that you’re entirely different from the rest of them?” Hermione huffed, clutching her books tight against her chest as her stomping footsteps grew visibly heavier.
“Certain prejudices can’t be rewritten overnight,” Silan offered with a casual shrug.
Pureblood wizards like Ron had been exposed to the magical world since infancy.
They grew up hearing about the four Hogwarts houses, leading to deeply ingrained, preconceived notions long before they arrived.
Ron had listened to negative stories about Slytherin from his family since he was a toddler.
Combined with Malfoy and his cronies acting like absolute menaces every single day, his bias wasn’t surprising.
A stereotype formed over years couldn’t be dismantled in mere days.
Though…
if one wanted to be thoroughly honest, Ron wasn’t technically wrong.
Silan wasn’t actually different from any other Slytherin; in fact, he was arguably a far more pure example of one.
He was just incredibly good at playing a part.
“Alright, stop being cross,” Silan said, giving Hermione a playful wink.
“I’ll take you somewhere brilliant.” Hermione stopped dead in her tracks, snapping her head around to look at him.
“You don’t mean the third-floor corridor on the right, do you?
That’s strictly forbidden.” “No, don’t worry.” “Then where are we going?” “It’s a secret for now.
It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.
Besides, we need to check on Neville first.” Hermione nodded, her anger softening.
“I hope he’s alright.” Together, they made their way toward the Hogwarts hospital wing, brainstorming on the way about how best to comfort Neville when they saw him.
Their ultimate, foundational agreement was simple: whatever happened, they absolutely could not laugh.
The Hogwarts hospital wing was exceptionally well-equipped, fully capable of treating the vast majority of ordinary or magical ailments and injuries, including repairing broken or entirely missing bones.
Only the most severe, critical conditions were transferred to St.
Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
A minor mishap during a first-year Potions class was well within Madam Pomfrey’s ability to handle independently.
Stepping inside the ward, Silan spotted two groaning students lying on nearby beds.
They were still clad in Quidditch robes, likely having taken a nasty spill during practice.
A tall witch was tending to them with practiced efficiency; this had to be Madam Pomfrey.
Curiously, out of the handful of first-years who had been sent up during Potions, only Neville remained in bed.
The others were nowhere to be seen.
At the moment, Neville had a clean white sheet draped completely over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed to stare blankly at the stone ceiling.
“Neville, how are you feeling?” Silan asked, walking up to the side of the bed.
“Oh, Silan!
And Hermione!
What are you two doing here?” Neville tilted his head slightly, peering up at them with his one visible eye.
“I mean, I’m doing alright.
Madam Pomfrey already did the initial treatment, so I just need to apply the remaining potion now.” “Where did everyone else go?” Hermione asked, glancing around the empty beds.
“Weren’t you the first one sent up?
How did they leave before you?” If it weren’t for the white cloth obscuring his face…
well, even without the cloth, neither of them would have been able to tell that Neville was blushing.
The boils littering his skin were already bright red.
Neville shifted his eyes guiltily back to the ceiling, stammering for a long moment without giving an answer.
“Alright, Mr.
Longbottom.
Here is the last of the burn paste for the boils.
Remember, this is a topical ointment to be rubbed onto the skin.
Do *not* drink it again.
If you had listened the first time, you would have been discharged along with the others.” Madam Pomfrey walked past the bed, placing a small jar into Neville’s hand.
“Madam Pomfrey!” Neville squeaked, his face burning with embarrassment at being exposed so directly.
“Oh, apologies.
I didn’t realize your friends were here.” Just as the Matron finished speaking, another injured student was escorted through the doors.
She whipped around instantly, hurrying over while muttering under her breath.
“Another one!
What on earth are the professors doing down there?
Utterly irresponsible, the lot of them!
Oh, you poor dear…” It was glaringly obvious that Madam Pomfrey’s good mood was inversely proportional to the number of students admitted to her ward.
The fewer patients she had, the happier she was.
With the room currently overflowing, her temper was visibly frayed.
Catching sight of the ointment Madam Pomfrey had handed over, Silan and Hermione exchanged a brief look and smoothly turned their backs to Neville.
Both of their shoulders began to tremble violently.
It took a good few moments before they could rearrange their expressions and turn back around.
“Were you two just laughing at me?” Neville asked suspiciously.
“No,” Silan and Hermione said in perfect unison.
“Really?” Neville pressed.
“Of course not.” Both of them nodded with absolute gravity.
“More importantly, let me help you apply that ointment,” Silan offered, smoothly shifting the topic.
He took the jar from Neville’s hand and gently lifted the white cloth from his face.
“Oh…” Hermione couldn’t help but let out a tiny gasp.
The boils covering Neville’s face were swollen and angry, completely distorting the profile of his cheek.
From a close distance, a thin, faint layer of pus could be seen weeping from the skin.
It was no wonder he wanted to hide under a sheet; it looked thoroughly painful and rather grim.
Yet, Silan didn’t display a single hint of revulsion.
Using a piece of clean gauze from the bedside table, he gently wiped away the fluid before carefully dabbing the ointment onto the skin.
His brow was slightly furrowed in concentration, his expression serious, and his movements incredibly light and tender.
He didn’t show the absolute slightest bit of distaste.
Watching from the side, Hermione couldn’t help but think that Silan was truly an incredibly kind and pure soul.
“Oh…
thank you so much, Silan,” Neville whimpered, so deeply moved he looked on the verge of tears.
“Do you remember what I told you a few days ago?” Silan asked softly.
“Eh?” Neville blinked, momentarily thrown off.
“I said we’re friends.
Since we’re mates, there’s absolutely no need to be so polite,” Silan said with a warm smile, continuing to apply the medicine with a steady hand.
He noticed that Madam Pomfrey’s ointment was remarkably potent.
The moment the cream touched the inflamed skin, the swelling began to recede, restoring the flesh to its original state.
Silan was genuinely impressed; the Matron’s medical prowess was no joke.
It made complete sense why rumors always circulated that St.
Mungo’s had repeatedly begged her to join them, even offering her the position of Healer-in-Charge, only for her to flatly refuse.
Even so, the hospital kept the position open for her indefinitely.
Hearing Silan’s words, a tear of pure gratitude slipped down Neville’s cheek.
*Silan is truly the best friend I could ever ask for!* As he was drowning in emotion, he heard Silan speak again.
“Once we’re finished with the medicine, I’m going to take you somewhere.
I’ve managed to secure a private greenhouse for you there, so you can cultivate your own magical plants whenever you like.” “Neville, you have a genuine gift.
It would break my heart to see a talent like yours go to waste.” Silan meant that entirely literally.
If Neville’s talent went to waste, Silan would lose a highly skilled source of free labor, meaning he wouldn’t be able to easily get his hands on rare, expensive ingredients down the line.
If he wasn’t turning a profit, he was actively losing out.
And losing out on that scale was something Silan absolutely could not tolerate.
“Thank you…
thank you, Silan,” Neville choked out, his voice cracking with emotion.
Aside from his immediate family, no one had ever valued him like this.
A wizard as brilliant and exceptional as Silan was not only proud to call him a friend, but was willing to clean his wounds without a shred of disgust, all while actively looking out for his education and long-term future.
Neville felt like the luckiest person alive.
*Could anyone find a better friend than Silan?
He thinks of my well-being in absolutely everything he does!* *I, Neville Longbottom, swear to protect this friendship with everything I have!* Neville vowed silently to himself.
Wagering the very blood and honor of the Longbottom family, he resolved to study Herbology with absolute devotion, determined never to let Silan down.
Even Hermione, standing nearby, felt a profound wave of admiration.
Silan was simply too good an individual, constantly putting his friends before himself.
How could someone be so selfless?
She honestly couldn’t comprehend how Slytherin House had been blessed with the sheer luck of having a student like him.
With the ointment fully applied, the remaining boils on Neville’s face rapidly vanished into smooth skin.
“Madam Pomfrey, thank you for patching up my friend.
Have a lovely day,” Silan called out politely as they prepared to leave.
“Oh, think nothing of it, dear.
Do be careful in the future,” Madam Pomfrey replied, her tone softening significantly.
She had noticed the boy patiently applying the ointment for his classmate earlier, and the fact that he hadn’t forgotten to bid her a polite farewell made an immense impression.
She immediately marked him down as a thoroughly sweet, well-mannered young man.
Her opinion of Silan skyrocketed.
“Right, let’s go,” Silan said to the other two.
“We need to find the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls first if we want to get to the place.” —