Harry Potter and the Triwizard Gambit - Chapter - 2

The roaring fireplace in the west drawing room of Highgarden suddenly blazed bright emerald, casting dancing green light across the golden-framed portraits that lined the walls. The enchanted hearth hissed and crackled—and then with a whoosh of displaced air, Neville Longbottom stepped out of the flames, brushing soot from his sleeves like it was second nature.

He took a deep breath and looked around the room with quiet familiarity. Highgarden was his second home. He knew every hallway, every window, every secret door tucked behind ivy-covered tapestries. He had spent countless days here—sometimes training in the dueling yard with Harry and the twins, other times tucked into one of the sunny libraries drafting reports or reviewing contracts for the Star broomsticks company. He could navigate the estate blindfolded.

A second swirl of green fire announced the arrival of his grandmother. Augusta Longbottom, tall and proud despite her age, stepped from the flames with a graceful confidence that came from decades of commanding respect. Her wide-brimmed hat, adorned with a stuffed vulture, sat imperiously atop her iron-gray hair. She carried herself like a general inspecting the grounds of a battlefield, and her sharp eyes took in the opulent surroundings with quiet calculation.

"So this is Highgarden," she murmured, adjusting her gloves. "Never visited. Always heard it was extravagant, even for the Blacks." She sniffed. “Not as much dust as I expected.”

Neville smiled faintly but said nothing. He started walking without waiting for a guide, and Augusta followed, noting how confidently he moved through the manor’s elegant corridors and high-ceilinged halls.

She had seen it with her own eyes, the way Neville had changed. Years ago, before Hogwarts, she had feared for him—deeply. He’d been shy, soft-spoken, painfully slow with his studies, and worst of all, he’d shown no accidental magic even after turning five. The family worried. Even her own brother had once whispered that Neville might not be “fit for the name.” Those whispers had haunted her.

But now… now, her grandson was unrecognizable in the best way. He spoke with confidence, carried himself with pride, and had become—unmistakably—a young man of influence. The estate that once teetered on the brink of financial decline now had money flowing back into it, thanks largely to Neville’s business ventures with Harry Potter and the Stars Club. Augusta had been skeptical at first—a magazine? Furniture Store? Broomsticks?—but the numbers didn’t lie. The vaults were no longer shrinking.

And yes, she read Star Magazine. Not that she’d ever admit to being anything other than a “casual observer,” but she kept every issue neatly stacked in her reading room.

They arrived at a sitting room on the eastern side of the manor. The curtains were half-drawn, letting warm morning light spill over the polished floors. Inside sat two men—both immediately rising to their feet as the Longbottoms entered.

Sirius Black, draped in a black velvet robe over dark slacks, beamed the moment he saw Neville.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite dueling partner!” Sirius grinned, striding forward and clapping Neville on the shoulder. “You’re taller again. It’s starting to make me feel old.”

Neville grinned. “Or maybe you’re just shrinking, Sirius.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Augusta’s eyes had already shifted to the other man. Remus Lupin, dressed in plain brown robes, gave her a warm nod. He looked older than she remembered, paler, but still the gentle, well-mannered man she’d known back when he and Frank had trained together during the First War.

“Lady Longbottom,” Remus said respectfully. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Remus,” she replied with a firm nod. “I was sorry to hear about your troubles last time. You seem to be keeping busy now?”

“He’s not just busy,” Sirius said proudly. “He’s running the entire Starbroomstick company. All the production, contracts, deliveries—Remus is the one making sure we don’t collapse under the weight of our own success.”

Remus gave a sheepish smile. “I just manage. It’s Harry’s vision. Neville’s too.”

Augusta looked at her grandson with renewed approval. She was proud—but she was also curious. And cautious.

“Which brings me to the question at hand,” she said crisply. “Sirius, you said Harry asked me to come here. But you never told me what for.”

Sirius sobered. “No, I didn’t. I thought it best he explain it himself.”

He gestured toward the hall. “Come with me.”

Remus blinked. “Wait—you’re not going to tell me either?”

“You’ll see,” Sirius replied, his tone more serious than usual.

They walked through the echoing stone corridors of Highgarden in silence. Only the soft clack of Augusta’s walking stick broke the quiet. Remus followed uneasily, glancing from Sirius to Neville, who looked just as puzzled.

As they passed the grand stairway, a door opened to their left, and Harry Potter emerged, drying his hands with a towel. He wore simple robes, his sleeves pushed up, and there was a smudge of what looked like powdered asphodel across one cheek.

“Ah,” he said, catching sight of them. “Perfect timing.”

“Potions room?” Remus asked.

Harry nodded. “Just sorting a few new orders. Good to see you, Lady Longbottom.” He stepped forward and shook her hand.

She studied him. She had met him only a few times before—mostly in passing—and had always found him... strange. Not rude, not wild, but strange. There was a deep stillness in his eyes, a focus she rarely saw in anyone so young. Perhaps it was power. Or perhaps it was simply grief forged into something sharp.

“Mr. Potter,” she said. “You’ve caused quite the stir in our world these past three years. Some say too much power for one boy.”

Harry smiled faintly. “That’s why I prefer to keep my real plans secret.”

Sirius chuckled darkly. “Oh, you’ll love what he’s kept secret this time.”

With that, they continued—down into the dungeons of Highgarden. The descent was steep, lit by torches that flared to life as they passed. Augusta’s expression hardened with every step, her posture tightening.

When they reached the lowest level, Sirius stepped ahead, unfastening the runic lock on the heavy iron door. With a groan, it swung open.

Inside, the dungeon was cool and dry. Stone cells lined both walls, some with cots, others empty. And in the last cell, bound in shackles that glowed faintly blue, lay a woman with matted black hair and sunken cheeks. Her face was pale, her eyes bloodshot with madness.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

Remus gasped aloud. Neville froze.

And Augusta Longbottom went still as stone.

The silence was broken by a single whisper from the cell:

“Longbottom.”

Augusta stepped forward slowly, her face unreadable. She looked at Bellatrix for a long time before turning to Harry.

“When?”

“Near the end of last year,” Harry said softly. “I caught her after she murdered Professor Greaves. I’ve kept her imprisoned in secret ever since. But she’s not mine to judge.”

He looked at Neville, then Augusta.

“She’s yours.”

Neville’s hands clenched into fists. His face was pale, but his voice was steady.

“Why?”

“Because you deserve to choose,” Harry said. “Not the Ministry. Not Dumbledore. You.”

Bellatrix began to scream again—vile, guttural curses that echoed off the stone walls.

But this time, no one flinched.

Neville stepped forward, his wand already in hand.



The cell was silent now, except for Bellatrix’s wheezing breath and the soft hum of her enchanted shackles. She was slumped in the corner like a broken puppet, restrained but still dangerous, eyes flickering with spite and something deeper—rage, perhaps, or pride.

Augusta Longbottom stood outside the cell, her back straight, her expression carved from granite. She did not flinch. She did not blink. And when Bellatrix hissed her name again like a curse, Augusta didn’t even spare her a glance.

Instead, she turned toward Sirius Black, who leaned casually against the dungeon wall, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“She doesn’t belong here,” Augusta said firmly, voice calm but resolute. “This is your home now, Sirius. And this is a sanctuary for your godson and his friends. Bellatrix Lestrange doesn’t deserve to spend her final days in a place like this. She deserves to rot in the dark, surrounded by everything she destroyed.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “And where would you prefer she rot?”

Augusta looked him dead in the eyes. “Longbottom Manor. Our old dungeon still holds firm, and I know every stone of it. She’ll stay there, where her screams echo through the same halls she cursed my family in.”

Harry, who had been watching silently, finally spoke. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” Augusta said without hesitation. “I won’t kill her here. That would be… too clean. Too convenient. No. Bellatrix Lestrange doesn’t deserve a quick death. She tortured my son and his wife until their minds shattered. She left Neville without parents. She left me without my child. And she did it laughing.”

She turned back to the cell and gazed at Bellatrix as though looking through her, not at her.

“She will not laugh in my dungeon.”

There was a pause. Then Sirius slowly nodded.

“I’ll help you move her,” he said. “Longbottom Manor, then.”

Even Harry nodded without question, his hands curling at his sides. “She won’t be a problem during transport.”

Only Remus hesitated, his jaw tense. “Are we really going to… hand her over? Just like that?”

“She’s already theirs,” Harry said, not unkindly. “She became theirs the moment she broke Frank and Alice Longbottom. I’m just returning what belongs to them.”

Remus’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

Augusta reached for the chain binding Bellatrix’s floating body, holding it steady with surprising ease. “If you’re ready, gentlemen.”

With a few well-timed spells, they lifted Bellatrix’s unconscious form off the dungeon floor. Her arms hung limply beneath the magical suppression cuffs. A faint green shimmer glowed along the enchanted runes, ensuring she remained incapable of casting, resisting, or apparating.

They carried her up the stairs, cloaked her in a silencing charm, and entered the drawing room where the enchanted fireplace stood ready.

Augusta pulled a small leather pouch from within her robes, flicked it open, and tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the flames. The fire turned a brilliant, swirling emerald, taller than any man in the room.

She turned back to them with a stiff nod. “Let’s not delay. Longbottom Manor awaits.”

Sirius and Harry stepped through first, guiding the hovering Bellatrix between them, her body held aloft by invisible magical tethers. Remus followed after a moment, still visibly uneasy.

As they emerged into the sitting room of Longbottom Manor, the air shifted. If Highgarden was all roses, polish, and magic-suffused comfort, Longbottom Manor felt older. Grander, perhaps, in its own austere way—but every corner bore the weight of history. Heavy tapestries adorned the walls. Ancient portraits watched from above high mantels, their eyes sharp and disapproving.

Harry looked around. He had only visited Longbottom Manor a handful of times, and it always left him with the same feeling: respect. This was a house built on discipline and quiet pain. It didn’t speak loudly, but its walls remembered.

The house-elf who greeted them squeaked in alarm at the sight of Bellatrix’s floating body, but Augusta waved her off with a terse, “The dungeon is prepared. Open the wards.”

They moved swiftly down the west wing corridor, through an iron-banded door Harry had never noticed on previous visits. Beyond it lay a stone staircase, winding down into a chamber colder than even the dungeons of Runestone Castle.

The walls here were lined with iron sconces lit by pale blue flame. Dust motes drifted through the still air, undisturbed for decades. The floor was made of slate tiles, uneven and time-worn. At the end of the passage sat a single cell, carved directly into the bedrock, reinforced with silver-inlaid runes.

As they entered, Augusta gestured to the cell.

“Put her in.”

With a whisper of magic and a thump of dead weight, Bellatrix Lestrange was lowered onto the stone floor. The shackles anchored themselves to a rune-carved ring bolted into the ground. Her body twitched once, then went still.

Sirius stepped back, brushing dust off his sleeves. “Well. That’s that.”

Augusta walked to the cell door, turned the massive iron key herself, and slid the bolt into place. The door locked with a heavy, resounding clang.

She stood there a long moment. Watching. Listening.

And then—for the first time Harry could ever remember—Augusta Longbottom smiled.

It wasn’t a polite smile. It wasn’t a nod of acknowledgment. It wasn’t even the proud smirk she sometimes gave Neville after a well-cast hex.

This was a full smile. Her shoulders eased. Her eyes gleamed. For that one moment, the years melted from her, and the grandmother Harry had only glimpsed in passing became something far more dangerous: a woman who had waited for justice, and now held it in her hands.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “All of you.”

Harry nodded. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I do,” she said. “Neville is who he is because you believed in him when so many others didn’t. And now this…”

She glanced toward the cell again.

“This is for Alice. For Frank. For everything that woman stole from us.”

Sirius placed a hand gently on her shoulder, squeezing it. “You’ll know what to do. And if you need help—”

“I won’t,” Augusta said calmly. “But thank you.”

Without another word, Harry turned, leading Sirius and Remus back up the stairs. As they reached the main floor, Remus let out a slow breath.

“I still don’t know how I feel about it,” he murmured. “Leaving her here like that.”

Sirius glanced at him. “You don’t have to feel good about it. You just have to remember what she did.”

Harry didn’t speak. But in his mind, he saw Neville’s face from the night Bellatrix escaped Azkaban. He remembered the fury in Neville’s voice, the tremor of grief that never quite faded.

Now, at last, Neville had the choice.

As the sun began to set outside Longbottom Manor, the three men stepped into the Floo and vanished in a swirl of green fire—leaving Bellatrix behind in the dark, and the Longbottoms in command of their legacy once more.