Neville Longbottom stood at the office door, hesitating for a full three minutes.
He had raised his hand to knock four times, only to pull it back at the last second each time.
On the fifth attempt, the door opened from the inside.
Artoria stood in the doorway, holding a cup of tea, looking down at him.
“You have been standing there for a long while,” she said.
Neville’s face instantly turned bright red.
“I…
I…
Professor Zhang asked me to come see him…”
“Enter.”
Neville stepped into the office as cautiously as if he were crossing a minefield.
His eyes darted everywhere—at the books on the desk, the paintings on the walls, the Black Lake outside the window—anywhere but at Zhang Wen.
Zhang Wen sat behind the desk with Neville’s ungraded assignment spread out before him.
“Sit down, Mr.
Longbottom.”
Neville sat.
The chair gave a loud creak, startling him so much he nearly jumped back up.
“Relax,” Zhang Wen said.
“I didn’t call you here because you’ve done something wrong.”
Neville swallowed hard, clearly unconvinced.
In his experience, a professor asking for a private chat never led to anything good.
Snape sought him out to scold him, McGonagall to sigh at him, and Flitwick to comfort him—but the comfort itself was usually proof that things were going poorly.
Zhang Wen pushed the assignment toward him.
“You wrote: ‘Stay perfectly still and hope the Dark creature doesn’t see me.'”
Neville hung his head.
“Do you know what’s wrong with that answer?”
“…It wasn’t good enough?” Neville’s voice was as faint as a mosquito’s buzz.
“It’s not that it wasn’t good enough,” Zhang Wen said.
“It’s that it wasn’t honest.”
Neville looked up, confused.
“When you wrote that, were you just being perfunctory, or do you truly believe that when faced with danger, all you can do is stand still?”
Neville remained silent for a long time.
“I…
I really feel like I can’t do anything,” he said, his voice trembling.
“My magic is terrible.
Professor Snape says I’m the thickest student he’s ever taught.
I can’t even manage a simple Transfiguration—”
“Mr.
Longbottom,” Zhang Wen interrupted.
“What was your rank in the physical training run this morning?”
Neville blinked, stunned.
“Fifth…?”
“Fifth.
Out of twenty-six students, you ranked fifth,” Zhang Wen said.
“Faster than Malfoy, faster than most of the Slytherins, even faster than Weasley.”
Neville blinked again, appearing as though he had never considered the matter from that perspective.
“Your magic certainly needs improvement.
But your physical condition is not poor.
This proves you aren’t ‘unable to do anything’; you simply haven’t found what you’re good at yet.”
Neville’s lips moved, but he didn’t speak.
Zhang Wen leaned back in his chair.
“I didn’t grade your assignment, not because it was bad, but because I want you to rewrite it.”
“Rewrite it?”
“Yes.
This time, don’t write about what you think you ‘can’ or ‘cannot’ do.
Write about one thing—if your friends were in danger, what would you do?”
Neville froze.
He clearly hadn’t expected that question.
“No rush.
Just hand it in next week,” Zhang Wen said.
“Off you go.”
Neville stood up and walked to the door.
He paused and looked back at Zhang Wen.
“Professor Zhang…
thank you.”
“For what?”
“Thank you for not shouting at me.”
Neville left.
Zhang Wen watched the closed door, silent for a few seconds.
“That boy will be formidable in the future,” he said.
Artoria stepped out from the corner and placed a freshly brewed cup of tea on his desk.
“Why are you so certain?”
“Because I know his future,” Zhang Wen murmured.
In the original story, Neville would draw the Sword of Gryffindor in the final battle and behead Nagini—Voldemort’s final Horcrux.
This round-faced boy who couldn’t even manage Transfiguration now would one day become a true hero.
“Besides,” Zhang Wen added, “someone who has been suppressed for twelve years without completely giving up must have something in his bones.
He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Artoria picked up her own teacup.
“I will begin giving him extra private training tomorrow.”
“Don’t be too harsh.”
“I won’t,” Artoria said.
“Just twenty percent more than the standard routine.”
Zhang Wen suspected Neville’s coming days wouldn’t be easy.
But perhaps that was a good thing.
That afternoon, Zhang Wen received a letter.
Delivered by owl, the envelope was stamped with the Malfoy family crest—a silver serpent entwined around a capital ‘M’.
The parchment felt incredibly expensive, likely worth more than Zhang Wen’s monthly salary.
The content was concise.
“Mr.
Zhang Wen:
I am Lucius Malfoy, father of Draco Malfoy, and a member of the Hogwarts Board of Governors.
I have recently learned that you have included physical training segments in your Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, a development that causes me deep concern. Find the original chapter at novelping dot com.
Hogwarts is a school of magic, not a Muggle athletic camp.
Such teaching methods are unprecedented in the history of Hogwarts, and I believe further communication on this matter is necessary.
Furthermore, I note that you are a temporary replacement recommended by Mr.
Lockhart.
We know very little regarding your qualifications and background.
As a member of the Board, it is my responsibility to ensure the quality of education at Hogwarts.
I await your reply.
Lucius Malfoy”
Zhang Wen read the letter twice.
On the surface, it spoke of “communication” and “concern for educational quality.”
The actual meaning was: “My son came home to complain, so you’d better give me an explanation.”
“Trouble’s here.” Zhang Wen handed the letter to Artoria.
After reading it, Artoria’s expression didn’t change at all.
“Who is he?”
“The head of the Malfoy family.
A pure-blood aristocrat, wealthy and powerful, with influence in both the Ministry of Magic and the Hogwarts Board of Governors.” Zhang Wen thought for a moment.
“He’s roughly equivalent to…
the Einzbern family in the Type-Moon world?
No, not that extreme.
More like a medieval noble with actual power.”
“His threat level?”
“No direct threat to us.
He can’t personally come to Hogwarts to cause trouble, but he can pressure Dumbledore through the Board of Governors to indirectly affect my teaching.”
Artoria placed the letter back on the desk.
“How do you plan to reply?”
Zhang Wen thought for a few seconds.
“I won’t.”
“No reply?”
“Exactly,” Zhang Wen said.
“Replying would be playing by his rules.
He didn’t write to actually communicate; he wrote to let me know he’s watching.
If I rush to explain myself, I’m essentially acknowledging his right to interfere with my teaching.”
He picked up the letter, folded it, and tucked it into a drawer.
“But what if he exerts pressure through the Board?” Artoria asked.
“Then let Dumbledore deal with it,” Zhang Wen said.
“The appointment of professors and the curriculum are the Headmaster’s prerogative.
No matter how much Lucius Malfoy fusses, as long as Dumbledore doesn’t budge, he can’t touch me.”
“You trust this Headmaster a great deal.”
“It’s not exactly trust,” Zhang Wen said.
“It’s just that when it comes to ‘dealing with the Malfoy family,’ my interests and Dumbledore’s are aligned.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Artoria glanced at him.
“Your political intuition is sharp.”
“Those who survived the Type-Moon world with poor political intuition are all dead.”
Artoria did not contradict him.
That was indeed the truth.
In the evening, Zhang Wen waited in his office as scheduled for Harry’s after-class tutoring.
At exactly six o’clock, there was a knock.
“Come in.”
Harry pushed the door open.
He wasn’t alone today—Ron was behind him, followed by a bushy-haired Hermione.
Zhang Wen raised an eyebrow.
“I recall only inviting Mr.
Potter.”
“I…
could I join too?” Ron scratched his head.
“My Disarming Charm still won’t hit anything.”
“I’d like to participate as well,” Hermione said, her tone much more assertive than Ron’s.
“I want to learn that prediction technique Assistant Pendragon mentioned.”
Zhang Wen looked at the trio.
Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger.
The Golden Trio.
In the original story, these three had fumbled their way through fighting Voldemort and various Dark Arts threats without any adult guidance.
If someone could give them a solid foundation during their second year—
“Very well,” Zhang Wen said.
“But I have conditions.”
The three of them looked at him simultaneously.
“First, no tardiness.
One late arrival and you’re disqualified.”
They nodded.
“Second, the contents of this tutoring are not to be shared.
Some of what I teach might fall outside the standard curriculum, and spreading it could cause unnecessary trouble.”
They nodded again.
Hermione nodded the most vigorously.
“Third—” Zhang Wen looked at Ron.
“Mr.
Weasley, there is something wrong with your wand.”
Ron’s face flushed.
“I know.
It’s my brother Charlie’s old wand.
The unicorn hair is nearly poking out…
but a new one is so expensive—”
“I’m not asking you to buy a new one.” Zhang Wen pulled Lockhart’s old wand from a drawer.
“Borrow this for now.
Cherry, unicorn hair, nine inches.
The compatibility might not be perfect, but it’s certainly better than what you have.”
Ron’s eyes widened.
“Really?”
“It’s just a loan.
Give it back once you’re able to get a new one.”
He gave it a tentative wave—a cluster of warm, orange sparks erupted from the tip.
There was no strange buzzing or green smoke like his old wand produced.
It was a normal, healthy magical reaction.
Ron’s expression shifted from shock to pure joy.
“This—this is so much better than my old one!”
Hermione smiled beside him.
Harry patted Ron on the shoulder.
“Alright.” Zhang Wen clapped his hands.
“Wands out, let’s begin.
Today’s lesson: precision control of the Disarming Charm.”
The three of them immediately focused.
Zhang Wen placed three targets at the front of the room—he had Transfigured them himself.
They were much better than the crooked one from the Welcoming Feast; at least these were upright.
“The rules are simple.
There are three rings on the target—outer, middle, and inner.
The outer ring is one point, the middle is three, and the center is five.
You each get ten attempts.”
Harry went first.
Seven out of ten hits.
Two in the middle ring, one in the center.
Total: seventeen points.
Hermione was second.
Five out of ten hits, all in the outer ring.
Total: five points.
However, her casting stability was the best of the three—the power behind each spell was almost identical.
Ron was last.
With the new wand, Ron was like a different person.
Six out of ten hits.
Three in the outer ring, two in the middle, and one in the center.
Total: sixteen points.
“Mr.
Weasley,” Zhang Wen said, looking at the results.
“It wasn’t that your aim was bad before; your wand was just rubbish.”
Ron grinned, the tips of his ears turning red.
“Keep practicing,” Zhang Wen said.
“Ten sets a day.
If you stick with it for a month, your Disarming Charm will reach combat-ready levels.”
The three practiced for half an hour.
Throughout the session, Artoria stood in the corner, observing.
When they finished and were packing their things to leave, Hermione suddenly turned to Artoria.
“Assistant Pendragon, may I ask…
are you really a knight?”
Artoria looked at her.
“Yes.”
“What kind of knight?”
Artoria was silent for two seconds.
“A knight who protects the people.”
Hermione’s eyes lit up.
She seemed to want to ask more, but Harry gave her a tug, and the three of them left together.
Once the door closed, the office fell silent.
“You gave Lockhart’s wand to Weasley,” Artoria said.
“I don’t need it anyway.
Leaving it in a drawer would only let it collect dust.”
“That wand could be sold for money.”
“It wouldn’t fetch many Galleons.” Zhang Wen stretched.
“Besides, if that boy kept using his old wand, something disastrous would eventually happen.
In the original timeline, his wand was meant to break completely at some point, leading to a very serious consequence.”
“What consequence?”
“A backfired Memory Charm.
Though Lockhart was the unlucky one who got hit, still…
forget it, I’m saying too much.
Anyway, getting him a functional wand is better for everyone.”
Artoria picked up her teacup and found the tea had gone cold.
She set the cup down and glanced out the window.
The sky had darkened completely, with sparse stars scattered across the heavens.
“Master.”
Zhang Wen turned his head.
Artoria rarely called him “Master” when it was just the two of them.
Usually, she either spoke directly or occasionally used his name.
“What is it?”
“These children…” Artoria paused.
“They are worth protecting.”
Zhang Wen watched her.
When the King of Knights said this, her tone was different from usual.
It wasn’t a mere statement of fact; it sounded more like a confirmation—a confirmation of her reason for staying here.
“Of course they are,” Zhang Wen said.
Artoria gave a slight nod.
“Dinner is in fifteen minutes.”
“You go ahead, I’ll grade a few more assignments.”
“You need to eat at the proper time.”
“I’m not like you.
Skipping one meal won’t hurt me.”
“Consistent nourishment is the foundation of maintaining combat effectiveness.”
“I don’t even need to fight—”
“Master.”
Zhang Wen stood up in resignation.
“Fine, fine.
Let’s go.”
It was impossible to win an argument against the King of Knights.
Especially when it came to meals.