Euan Abercrombie, the Gryffindor first-year with conspicuously large ears, timidly raised his hand.
"But, Harry."
His voice was trembling.
"If we run into danger, shouldn't we rely on our wands to fight back? What's the point of this weighted running with magic taken out of it entirely?"
Neville Longbottom, who had remained silent all this time, spun around.
The Prefect Badge on his chest dazzled the first-year's eyes in the dim morning light.
"If you don't even have the strength to run for your life carrying a few dozen pounds, Euan."
Neville's voice was steady, without a trace of a stammer; this was his area of expertise, after all.
"When your wand is casually snapped by those lunatics who escaped from Azkaban."
"That spell theory you're so proud of will only be good for engraving on your tombstone."
Every trace of weakness vanished from Neville's round face.
"Move! All of you! Five laps along the muddy path around the outside of the Black Lake!"
The instructors' roars utterly crushed the first-years' last shred of hope of getting off easily.
Disordered footsteps soon rang out over the soft, wet mud.
They were accompanied by the dull thuds of sandbags and increasingly labored breathing.
Twenty minutes later, the limits of their exhausted bodies began tearing this fragile group apart.
At some point, rain had begun falling from the sky.
Those ferocious instructors never called a halt, and no one dared stop without permission.
Cold rain soaked their robes, and muddy water splattered their cheeks.
"You stepped on my foot! You stupid Hufflepuff!"
A Slytherin first-year suddenly fell into the mud.
Angrily, he grabbed the hem of a nearby Gryffindor first-year's robe.
He tried to pull himself up, only to drag the other boy hard to the ground as well.
"Get your filthy