In a crumbling fortress, the air was thick with tension and the acrid scent of smoke. Neville lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, blood pooling beneath him.

Pain shot through him, sharp and relentless, as he clutched his side, the wound oozing darkly.

He felt the icy grip of death creeping closer, but a flicker of defiance ignited within him.

“I refuse to die like this,”

he gasped, his voice hoarse, filled with desperation. Memories of power and glory swirled in his mind.

Across the room, You stood, battered and bruised, their own wounds a testament to the battle that had just unfolded. They were exhausted.

“I can help you” you say.

“Why would you do this? After everything?” His breath hitched as another wave of agony coursed through him.