This was the first time Alvin Vance had ever set foot inside the hospital wing.
The hospital wing was located at the end of a spacious corridor on the second floor of the castle.
At the entrance stood a heavy oak door inlaid with a brass plaque that read “Hospital Wing.”
Pushing the door open revealed a vast, sunlit ward.
Rows of tidy beds were neatly arranged, their white sheets glowing softly under the afternoon sun.
The air was filled with a faint scent—a blend of antiseptic, lavender, and a subtle, refreshing magical aroma—entirely unlike the gloomy, pungent stench of the Potions classroom.
Alvin’s gaze swept across the unfamiliar room, a sense of novel curiosity stirring within him.
As a cultivator raised in a Taoist temple, he rarely fell ill.
On the rare occasion he caught a cold or suffered minor scrapes during his training, his father would resolve them with medicinal herbs and simple acupuncture.
There had never been any need to step inside a “medical facility.”
Though there was a small clinic in the town at the foot of the mountain, he had never once set foot inside.
His concept of a hospital came only from vague impressions in books: white walls, doctors in white coats, and the sharp bite of disinfectant.
The hospital wing before him lacked the oppressive gloom described in those books.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, potted green plants stretched their leaves along the sills, and paintings of peaceful landscapes hung on the walls, their clouds drifting lazily across painted skies.
It felt less like a medical ward and more like a sanctuary for rest.
“Merlin’s beard!”
A hurried voice interrupted Alvin’s thoughts.
A witch wearing a crisp white cap and a neatly starched robe rushed over to meet them.
The moment her eyes landed on Neville, she gasped, her face instantly turning grim and anxious.
“What on earth happened?
How did he end up like this?”
She spoke as she briskly directed them,
“Quick, put him on that bed!
Yes, the one by the window!
Gently now, mind those boils!”
Alvin and Draco supported Neville between them, carefully lowering him onto the mattress.
The moment Neville lay down, he let out a painful groan as the boils on his back pressed against the sheets.
The witch swiftly snatched a bottle of pale purple potion from the bedside table, uncapped it, and brought it to Neville’s lips.
“Drink it, all of it.
Don’t ask questions, just drink.”
Neville dutifully opened his mouth and gulped it down.
The potion seemed foul-tasting, causing his face to scrunch into a tight knot, but the boils began to subside at a rate visible to the naked eye.
The red swelling faded, and the broken skin started to heal.
Only then did the witch let out a breath of relief.
She turned to Alvin and Draco, her gaze sweeping over their faces.
“Which house are you from?” she asked.
“Slytherin,” Draco said, lifting his chin slightly in an effort to look less like he had just hauled a walking disaster area.
He then pointed at Neville on the bed.
“Though he’s a Gryffindor.”
The witch nodded, her eyes fixing on Alvin.
“Child, perhaps you can tell me how he came to be in such a state?”
“My name is Alvin Selwyn,” Alvin replied politely before carefully considering how to address her.
“Madam, Neville—”
“Just call me Madam Pomfrey, child,” the witch interrupted.
Poppy Pomfrey, matron of the hospital wing and guardian of health for every Hogwarts student.
“Go on then, tell me in detail: how did this happen?”
Alvin succinctly recounted the accident in Potions: Neville’s cauldron exploding, potion spilling, and the rapid spread of boils.
His account was objective and precise, neither embellishing the details nor making excuses for anyone.
As Madam Pomfrey listened, her brows furrowed deeply.
“Severus Snape,” she muttered, her tone dripping with palpable dissatisfaction.
“Leaving students in such danger!
Knowing full well that first-years are the most prone to accidents, couldn’t he keep a closer eye on them?”
Draco opened his mouth as if to defend his Head of House, but meeting Madam Pomfrey’s sharp gaze, he wisely shut it again.
“Alright, children,” Madam Pomfrey shooed them with a wave of her hand, like brushing away two annoying flies.
“Neville needs quiet rest.
You may go now.
Don’t you have classes this afternoon?
Don’t be late.”
Alvin nodded and turned to leave.
Draco was already hastening toward the door, eager to escape a place steeped in potion odors that hardly suited his refined image.
…
The afternoon sun was even brighter than in the morning.
By the time Alvin and Draco reached the lawn in front of the castle, a good number of first-years had already gathered.
The lawn was trimmed flat as a carpet, glowing a healthy green under the autumn sunlight.
Scanning the crowd, Alvin was surprised to spot a familiar figure.
Neville.
He was standing among the Gryffindors, still looking somewhat pale, but the boils covering his skin were completely gone.
His arms and legs appeared fully restored, and he even seemed slightly more energetic than before—perhaps due to some restorative ingredient in the potion he had taken at the hospital wing. New chapters come out on g.com first.
Neville seemed to sense Alvin’s gaze and turned his head.
When his eyes met Alvin’s, a sincere, almost grateful light flickered in his round, habitually flustered eyes.
He gave Alvin a small nod and offered a timid smile.
Alvin returned the nod in acknowledgement.
“Well, Longbottom recovered fast,” Draco muttered beside him, his tone carrying a hint of annoyance that Neville had returned so quickly.
Alvin paid him no mind.
The instructor for their Flying Class was a witch who looked exceptionally crisp and capable.
She had short gray hair, yellow hawk-like eyes, and wore neat athletic robes.
Standing in the middle of the lawn with her hands on her hips, she cleared her throat as soon as all the first-years assembled, her voice echoing loud and clear:
“Alright, quiet down, everyone!
I am Madam Hooch, your Flying Class professor.
Now, everyone stand beside a broomstick.
Hurry, chop-chop!”
She drew her wand and gave it a gentle flick.
The row of battered broomsticks lined up neatly at the edge of the lawn rose smoothly into the air as if guided by invisible hands, before dropping precisely onto the grass beside each student’s feet.
Alvin looked down at the broomstick at his feet.
It looked extremely…
old.
The twigs were uneven, several at the tail snapped off, and the paint on the handle was flaking away in patches to reveal dull wood underneath.
It was a far cry from the broomstick he had imagined.
Draco spent every waking moment bragging about how sleek, streamlined, and aerodynamic his Nimbus 2000 was.
“Stick your right hand out over the handle!” Madam Hooch barked from the front.
Alvin complied.
“And say, ‘Up!'”
“Up!”
Dozens of voices rose in unison, ragged and uneven—some loud, some timid, some dragging out the vowel.
Alvin uttered the command clearly, his tone steady, neither strained nor hesitant.
In the next instant, he felt the broomstick jerk violently.
The battered piece of wood seemed suddenly imbued with life.
It shuddered, then shot up straight off the ground without a moment’s hesitation, slapping firmly into his palm with a crisp *snap*.
The feel of it in his grip was as natural as if it belonged there all along.
Holding the broomstick, Alvin paused, slightly surprised.
That was actually quite easy.
However, when he raised his head and looked around, he realized the situation wasn’t quite what he had assumed.
Draco stood beside him, holding his broomstick just as securely, his chin tilted up with a look of quiet, self-satisfied pride.
On the other side, Harry had also successfully summoned his broom into his hand, his green eyes sparkling with excitement.
As for the rest…
Hermione’s broomstick merely rolled over on the ground without leaving it.
She scowled and tried again, to no avail.
Ron’s broom lay completely inert; he glared at it furiously, as if daring it to embarrass him.
Seamus’s broom did jump up, but flew straight into his head, knocking him off balance.
Parvati Patil’s broom spun wildly around her, refusing to stay still long enough for her to catch it.
The worst off was Neville.
His broom had indeed risen, but it shot high into the air before plunging headfirst right onto his foot.
Neville let out a yelp of pain and hopped on one leg while clutching his foot.
A few nearby Gryffindors couldn’t help bursting into laughter, though they quickly stifled it.
Madam Hooch’s whistle cut through the commotion:
“Quiet!
Quiet, all of you!
Those who haven’t succeeded, keep practicing!
Those who have, hold your stance and don’t move!”
Alvin stood holding his broom, observing the colorful variety of failures around him, when a realization struck him:
Not everyone had practiced at home from a young age like Draco, nor did everyone possess some innate talent.
He recalled his eleven years of cultivation—the daily practice of Tuna Breathing, the tedious fundamental drills, the postures corrected countless times by his father.
Had it not been for that foundation, he might very well be wrestling with his broomstick like the others.
“Alright!” Madam Hooch’s voice echoed again.
“Now, on my whistle.
When I blow it, kick off hard from the ground to lift yourselves up.
Remember, keep it steady—no higher than a few feet off the ground.
Then lean forward slightly and touch down gently.
Understood?”
“Understood!” Most answered with a mix of nervous excitement.
Madam Hooch raised her whistle to her lips.
Yet just as she was about to blow—
Neville’s broom suddenly rocketed out of control.
No one knew what happened.
Perhaps he was too nervous, perhaps the broom was defective, or perhaps it was simply a cruel twist of fate.
Yes, Neville was still clinging to it for dear life—shooting straight into the sky.
“Aaaaagh!!!”
Neville’s terrified shriek pierced the air.
Everyone looked up, flabbergasted, as the tiny figure flew higher and higher, farther and farther.
Neville’s robes billowed frantically in the wind, his legs kicking helplessly, looking for all the world like a battered kite swept up by a gale.
“Longbottom!” Madam Hooch’s voice betrayed panic for the first time.
“Come down!
Lower your altitude!
Shift your weight to control the direction—oh, Merlin’s beard, he doesn’t know how!”
Neville clearly had no idea.
He soared higher and higher until he dwindled into a tiny speck against the sky.
And then—
The dot began to fall.
The screams rang out once more, far sharper and more desperate this time.
Everyone held their breath, watching the speck grow larger and closer—
*CRASH!*
Neville slammed onto the lawn.
To be exact, he crashed headlong into a shrub at the edge of the grounds.
Leaves and twigs flew in every direction as Neville tumbled out, landing sprawled on his back.
For a moment, the lawn fell so silent that only the whispering wind could be heard.
Then Neville screamed again, but this time not from fear—from raw pain.
His arm twisted at an entirely unnatural angle, clearly broken.
Madam Hooch rushed over and knelt beside him.
Her wand flicked rapidly as she assessed his injuries.
A few seconds later, she looked up, her expression grim and helpless.
“Broken arm,” she announced.
“Needs the hospital wing.”
She helped Neville up.
His face was as pale as paper, tears brimming in his eyes though he held them back.
He seemed almost accustomed to such misfortune, or at least slightly calmer than last time.
Madam Hooch turned to the first-years, her yellow hawk-like eyes flashing with unquestionable authority:
“None of you is to move a broom while I’m taking him to the hospital wing!
Not a single one!
If I find anyone flying while I’m away, you will pay the price!”
She escorted Neville, hurrying toward the castle.
Neville’s retreating figure looked so small and pitiful, like an orphan abandoned by the world.
Silence settled over the lawn once more.
Watching the boy walk away, Alvin felt a complex surge of emotion.
This was already the second time Neville had been carted off to the hospital wing today.
Once in Potions, once in Flying Class.
This round-faced boy’s affinity for misfortune was almost rivaling that of a legendary jinx.
“Serves him right,” Draco muttered softly under his breath, a faint trace of gloating in his voice.
“Always such a fool.”
The sunlight remained bright, the grass lush green, and the broomsticks rested quietly on the ground.
Yet a subtle, restless atmosphere hung in the air.
Madam Hooch was gone, leaving a crowd of first-years who had just touched broomsticks for the first time with strict orders not to move.
It was like heaping dry firewood right next to a bonfire and telling it not to catch flame.
Alvin’s gaze drifted aimlessly across the grounds.
Under the bright sun, something caught his eye, reflecting light from the grass.
It was a small red orb.
It lay quietly near the shrub where Neville had just crashed, standing out vividly against the green lawn.
Alvin narrowed his eyes, examining its appearance: round, red, with something swirling slowly inside like mist or liquid.
Draco had clearly noticed it too.
He strode over, bent down, and picked up the small sphere, turning it over in his hand.
Alvin walked over to him and asked curiously,
“What is that?”
Draco was just about to answer when a sharp voice called out from behind:
“Malfoy!”
Both turned around.
Harry was running toward them at a brisk pace, his green eyes filled with urgency.
Halting before them, he caught his breath and held out a hand:
“That’s Neville’s!
His grandmother sent him that Remembrall—he dropped it just now.
Give it back!”
Draco’s hand didn’t budge.
He looked down at the red ball in his grip, then looked up at Harry, a meaningful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Watching this unfold, Alvin felt a sudden bad premonition in his heart.
That subtle tension between Draco and Harry had surfaced once more.